United Federation of Rare Species
by LittleBounce
Summary: To help Hank acclimatise to Nick's new way of life, he and Monroe take Hank on a Boys' Grand Night Out to a wesen club. But things do not go to plan and when things get really wild, Nick finds his little band of brothers growing wider than he'd expected... (significant Nick whump; minor Monroe whump, OCs introduced, and some angst).
1. Chapter 1

**Here we go with a new story! I hope to update fairly frequently, or at least be reasonably consistent about things. The tone of this one will sober a little later on (want to cover an important topic close to my heart!) but I hope it provides fun and continuity for those of you who followed 'Inheritance'. I try to write so that stories can be stand-alone, so some of the initial stuff you may find a little repetitive if you've read the last one. It's just that I don't want to expect people to go read a different story before this one makes sense. Hope that's ok. And that you enjoy. Introducing a couple of OCs in this one that I'd like to take forward if they prove popular.**

**X x X**

Nick made to lunge after the suave French asshole but his friends hauled him back into line and turned him forcibly towards the front of the club queue. Hank's iron grip suppressed one shoulder. Monroe's the other. Slightly embarrassing that he was so easily suppressed at the moment. They kept him in the pincer movement a few moments longer until they appeared to agree by mutual consent that he wasn't going to break free and brain Juliette's date. Monroe took a deep breath, the kind of breath that Nick just knew was the build-up to one of his gentle lectures.

"Remember the rules for this evening? No fighting, no badges, no guns, or running off. No… complicated women."

"And no woge-ing" Hank added, lest this be forgotten.

Nick's jaw twitched. What did the French shit say? That he was 'expecting someone taller'? If it hadn't been for Juliette's silent apologetic look, he'd have…. Well. Done something Grimm to the snarky Ziegvolk. Did she even _know_ she was dating a Ziegvolk? He cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice level. "I wasn't going to fight him. I was just going to spread him across the wall."

"Oddly, I think that still counts as…fighting. Not that I dislike this new, feisty Nick, but remember Rosalee's sage counsel on this point? If you even want to rebuild so much as a friendship with Juliette…?"

Nick sighed heavily, recited from the book of Rosie. "I must remain a stable, reliable and comfortable constant in the background of her life."

"Good Nick. Sunglasses back on. We're in the queue proper now."

He resented being a stable, reliable and comfortable constant when all he wanted to do was grab Juliette and remind her why they'd been together in the first place. A little out of the question, but he remembered what she was like to kiss. What it was like to have to fight his way out of her hair in a high breeze. And it kept him awake. Of course he agreed with Rosie's strategy in principle, but he couldn't get near Juliette's life to become anything of significance in the background of it. And then she had to trot by the club with that utter fuckwit – Luc, was it? - with his slicked-back hair, limitless sideburns, unsubtle insults and his stupid chin tuft. Nick bristled. God's sake. If you're going to have facial hair, commit to it. He couldn't help glancing back down the street to torture himself with the view of the slimeball's arm round her waist, but was instead fractionally bolstered by Juliette turning back to him under the glare of a street light and mouthing 'sorry' before they dipped back into shadow.

"He was a suave ass," Hank muttered. "That was an evil snark he gave you, buddy. Gotta say, I'd have cocked him cold for that."

"Could you not encourage him, please? Okay, so he was smarmy, but to say that he was 'expecting someone taller' isn't the worst possible insult he could've— Nick, _no."_

"I'm fine," Nick said. "I'm just putting my fists through the motions. See how it feels to stick an imaginary Luc upside down in the gutter. I'd love to see him remain suave with two condoms and six smoke butts in his hair."

Hank snorted but Monroe eyed him doubtfully. "You sure you took _all _your meds today? You seem a little…combative."

"It's the Juliette effect. But yeah, I took them _all_."

"List them."

"Do I have to?"

"Yes!"

Nick felt like a kid proving he'd properly packed his school bag for mom. Monroe had been like this since he'd started going through his second 'puberty – the male 'Grimm change' – determined to keep the 'Nick' inside the strengthening Grimm and help him keep on top of the worst of the second-puberty symptoms. He counted his various disgusting dosages off on his fingers. "Mood stabilising goo: 7am and 1pm. Beat-blocking smoothie: again, 7 and 1. Anti-pheromone _pills, yay,_ 7, 12 and 5 – all before food. Happy?"

Hank chuckled. "I'm a witness to him taking the smoothie…. Well, most of it, anyway. There was a quick diversion to the men's room, wasn't there, Nick?"

Nick blushed. He wasn't quite sure how much of the biceps-of-doom preventative smoothie he'd actually kept down. He wished Hank would shut up – Monroe didn't need to know this.

"Anyway, at least three of the guys at the precinct questioned the wisdom of mixing charcoal with raspberry." He glanced pitifully at Monroe. "Your girlfriend has to come up with more palatable forms of drug, I'm telling you."

Monroe's eyes widened with alarm. "Your colleagues tried his smoothie?"

"Man, I had work to do! I didn't get there in time to stop them!"

"How do you know it was at least three?"

"Burgundy moustaches. Cops don't sip neat."

Nick saw Monroe's wince and didn't like the sound of this either. "What will it do to them?"

"Ah… I've no idea. But if it's meant to reduce muscular testosterone in a Grimm…. Well, I hope they're ok."

Hank now looked alarmed. "Any symptoms I should watch out for?"

"I'd better call Rosalee." Monroe did, but got voicemail. Again. He looked stressed, even for Monroe, and left a message asking her to call him back pronto. "This is just a guess, but it may make your colleagues a little… tired. Or just – not able to do stuff they can usually do, like jack the car up."

"Or wrestle a perp?"

"Probably not."

"Oh… man. I'm on call. If those guys go down sick, that's my night over."

Monroe, social secretary, looked outraged. "You said you had the night off!"

"It's been slow since the Southland drug-bust got compromised! While the narcs are starting from scratch and re-laying all their moles, I thought it would be safe to come out on an on-call night. There's nothing going down at the moment. Besides, I'll be drinking Bitburger. It's not like I'm getting pissed – I'm here for the babes."

"No complicated women!"

"Nothing complicated about a one-night stand." Hank shrugged. Then clapped a consolatory hand on Nick's shoulder. "I'm sorry about the Jules meet-up, man. That's harsh. Particularly as you're wearing _that _shirt."

Monroe eyed Hank, then Nick suspiciously. "You _are_ taking the anti-pheromones, aren't you?"

Nick rolled his eyes. "I think Juliette's total lack of pouncing, even with 'this shirt', proves that I'm taking the anti-pheromones."

"And Monroe – don't go reading anything into that remark. It was a purely sartorial comment. No Bromance here. Anyway – if I have any suspicion at all that he's getting an inordinate amount of sexual attention – I have a back-up plan." Hank pulled his jacket open discreetly to reveal the butt of what looked like a Glock. Even Nick stared. Hardly service issue.

"What happened to no guns?"

"This isn't a gun. No, my friends, this is a 1995 retractable, self-loading spraying device, capable of holding up to two cups of water in the magazine and the chamber." Hank winked at Nick. "If there's so much of a hint of people throwing themselves at you, you're getting sprayed, buddy."

Monroe still stared: eventually snapped out of it. "Where can I get one?"

Nick smiled thinly and let them get on with discussing his chances of pulling without the pheromones. He faded out of the conversation: it was hardly flattering. _That_ shirt was part of his 30th birthday present from Juliette, bought optimistically in an 'L'. It was a really smart dark-grey shot-colour number with silver threads blended throughout. His previous, less solid outline probably didn't do the shape much justice. Now it sat on his shoulders quite neatly and tucked into his trousers trimly, and he no longer looked like a little sardine lost.

Not that his improved appearance in 'that shirt' had made any impression on Jules whatsoever. He didn't think anything was going to make an impression on her. In the few days of him emitting Grimm pheromones in every direction (before Rosie had come up with the dose that would prevent him from getting sexually assaulted by nonagenarians as he was leaving the house in the morning) he'd suffered a moment of blind need to see Juliette and took a six mile detour on his run that would 'accidentally' take him past her yard. She was actually taking the milk out as he passed and he couldn't believe his luck, stopping to chat with her, his heart bursting with joy with every extra sentence of friendly normality she uttered. But she remained normal: no throwing herself at him; no silent observation on his tiny shorts; no inviting him in to help her unpack the milk. Totally, totally immune to him, his rampant hormones, and his clingy teeshirt. She'd simply seemed pleasantly surprised to see him, happy for a quick chat, and equally happy to send him on his way so he could beat his 'best time'.

Fucking Adalind and her thoroughness. He let his breath out. Time to move on.

He tuned back in to hear Monroe intoning their evening's crimes, albeit quietly so as not to alarm others in the queue. "…Okay, so we have guns, badges, one complicated woman – no offence, Nick – any other rules anyone wants to break before we go in?"

"There will be no wogeing. That's a non-negotiable."

Nick flinched. Hank was doing well with the whole acclimatisation business – this evening was all about getting him used to 'seeing' the _things_ in a non-threatening environment – but he still had the habit of seeing wesen as alien species who'd mostly murder him if he gave them the chance. Maybe this evening wasn't such a good idea. He leant over and murmured.

"Hank, it's Tennant's Bar. A wesen club. They have a woge-on-the-door policy. I did tell you about this."

"I don't mind any other ass doing their thing: I'm just not ready for Monroe to go all American-Werewolf-in-London on me. Still getting used to this, alright? Baby steps. That's what I need."

"Dude – it's fine. Incidentally, it's pronounced _vog-ing_ –

"Seriously?" Hank chuckled. "As in…?" he performed some surprisingly expert choreography.

"No, not vogue-ing. _Vog-ing, _with a 'k' in the middle of that 'g'. If the only thing Nick had to worry about was people performing a Madonna whenever he looked at them too closely, he'd be a less stressed guy. Speaking of which, and being 'Mom' again, wear your shades."

"I feel a berk in them."

"Put them on!" Monroe hissed. "We're in a huge queue of international wesen who don't know you're nice and cuddly, and you are a G-r-i-m-m.

"It's dark!"

Hank folded his arms warningly. "On, Nick."

Nick stuffed them on his face. "Are you guys going to gang up on me all night?"

"Yes," they said as one, and he sulked out of the conversation for a few minutes, feeling a complete ass – a nearly blind ass – trying to adjust to what little light there was coming through his shades while they chatted about the spice shop, the ridiculousness of 'Keeping up with the Kardashians'… - _"keep up with them? They wear six inch heels! A turtle could overtake!" - _

The shades were an absolute godsend, allowing him to just look around without catching anyone's eye – particularly in this queue – and think to himself without causing an unnecessary scene. Genius idea of Monroe's. And so simple. He chuckled absently to himself. As well as their various strictures (such as the list memoranda shoved in his wallet called 'unwise places to stretch shirtlessly before taking morning pills') and the absolutely disgusting bank of medicines they'd prepared for his fridge, Eddie and Rosalie had been the king and queen of support through this whole physical transition. There were a couple of things he couldn't quite master, however.

His gaze appeared to have become more intense: he'd dropped by Frank Rabe's office to drop off his and his mom's copies of the document contesting Aunt Marie's will, which somewhat savagely threatened to withhold financial inheritance from him until he was 35 and a 'proper Grimm'. It was good to have his mom's support on that. Eventually. And he was in a good mood when welcomed into Rabe's office. He'd gone over to shake the Jagerbar's hand and give him a crate of Merlot by way of thanks, but as soon as he took the shades off, the guy stared at him for ten impossibly long seconds, then his eyes rolled to the whites and he hit the carpet. One minute upright – next minute keeping the draughts out. Awkward to explain to his secretary.

And he could do nothing about his Grimm voice 'breaking', and the terrible moments it chose to become dense and menacing, even when he did nothing to change the pitch, volume or tone of his voice. If he were feeling particularly tired or low, it would even affect his colleagues. Though he essentially sounded the same, he could feel the change in his ears and the very pit of his throat: it was like he was issuing thundering commands from an echoey cloud rather than saying 'please pass the evidence', and the sudden crack of his Grimm voice had even startled the Captain off the side of his desk, where he'd been leaning so masterfully. And he had no control over it to prevent it or use it. He could feel a tickle coming and would try to apply it actively in the peace of his own home, Monroe observing and reviewing, but it would get away from him and he'd be back to being cop Nick. Which wasn't a bad thing, but… it would be nice to have his own equivalent of the Jedi wave to employ when he needed it.

"…So that's about the size of it," Hank muttered. "Whole Southlands deal gone bust. All the cops in the stakeout got pounded – particularly the Gresham PD guys – some of them won't be leaving hospital this month. The J got moved, and in few days, when the dust has settled, it'll start finding its way into dealers' pockets again. It sucks."

Nick winced. Hank worked the Narcotics desk before moving over to grand felony and homicide. "Must be hard for the guys in Narc to work this one. How are they staking out a stack of 'drugs' which are technically not illegal?"

"They can prove that they're harmful, and seize them. When there's been chemical testing, it can get a legal classification. But the only thing those guys care about is getting the stuff back before it finds its way onto playgrounds in little clear baggies."

Monroe hummed thoughtfully. "Well, just so your Narc boys know – Rosie is happy to help them identify this stuff when it rises."

"Appreciate that man, thanks. How is your complicated woman, anyway?"

"Ok, I guess."

Nick glanced at Monroe, concerned. He looked a little dazed and disoriented. Usually he'd be outraged at anyone daring to class Rosalee in the group of 'complicated' women. "Everything ok with you guys?"

"Oh, yeah, sure. She's just been… acting a little weird lately. She's out tonight, but she's had this tummy bug so she's been so tired and… and… nesty."

Nick frowned. "Nesty?"

"Filling the place with soft furnishings. God knows why. And she's been ripping bin bags, which she only does when she's really stressed."

Hank leant back behind Monroe and mouthed: _Pregnant! _echoing Nick's immediate thought almost precisely.

"It's the weepy that gets me," Monroe went on. "We'll be watching something fairly mentally unchallenging like Auction Kings, and then she'll go into floods because some old lady can visit her grandson in Sydney with the proceeds from her carriage clock. I mean it's nice, but something you don't sob over, surely?"

_Pregnant_! Nick held the word back tightly. "Uh.. maybe you should just take her to the doctor to get her blood sugar tested, or something? It could be something really simple."

"Yeah. Blood sugar, or iron. Just get Rosie to do a bunch of tests that involve peeing on a stick—"

Nick chuckled into his hand as Monroe tore Hank a new one for even thinking about his Rosie peeing on sticks, but it was efficiently done, if not smoothly: they'd at least put the germ of an idea of a test into his head without blowing the conversation open awkwardly. He had to thank Hank for that, especially as he was taking the earbashing silently and valiantly and almost with a straight face. But then, Hank probably had his own version of the Pack Rules and clearly his own equivalent of rule #6: "_When your buddy's in a good relationship and his girl is pregnant, he has the right to feel that he is the first to know."_

As his friends continued to bicker, resuming normal argumentative service, they moved closer and closer to the front of the queue where a massive doorman – about 6-6 with quite Icelandic features (Lowen?) – appeared to be sifting out humans on their dress code. He was polite but insistent in his strong English accent, adding 'have a good evening' after blasting various trouser combinations and sending people away in small miserable pockets to re-start their evening elsewhere. Nick brought the selection process to his friends' attention in case it meant that Hank couldn't get in. A party of girls two groups in front of them got turned away for 'unduly plungy tops'.

Monroe peered over the top of the group ahead, standing on tippy toes, tilting an ear to their wogeing conversation. He lowered himself back down, satisfied. "No, he's only doing that if there are no wesen in the group. Hank's with us. It'll be fine."

Tennant's Bar was absolutely massive. It was a Bavarian-themed place, so Nick had expected all the timber-cladding and the real ale and a kind of cosy, winter atmosphere, but no – this was a serious club. Strobe lights flickered down the stairs and lit up the hallway, it was pitch black inside save for the disco searchlights, and the heavy bass of Air's 'Sexy Boy' grated through the courtyard in front of the entrance and scraped through the pavement beneath their feet. The only concession to anything even vaguely Bavarian that Nick could see was the copper plaque to the left of the huge doorman, which Nick – having studied a little - translated back as:

_**No sporting colours**_

_**No sneakers**_

_**No Seigbarste's**_

_**The management reserve the right to eject unsuitable persons.**_

The guys in front – Danish Lausenschlangen – were admitted after a quick group hissy fit, and then it was their turn. The doorman started with Hank. He stared, but obviously nothing happened.

"You with these gentlemen, sir?"

"Yep."

"Fine. Be careful."

"Will do." And in Hank went. Easy. He trotted halfway up the stairs to wait.

Monroe stepped up and did his shift, growling softly. The doorman didn't reciprocate but nodded abruptly. Monroe was about to push through when halted by a hand on his chest.

"Hang about, son. Your chain."

Nick smiled. His voice was unmistakeably London. Ray Winstone London, not Hugh Grant London.

"My chain?" Monroe looked bemused. "It's holding my wallet onto my trousers."

"Let's have it please, sir."

"What?"

"Could be classed as an offensive weapon."

"W-What do you think I'm going to do? Hit someone with my overdraft?"

"Off. You can have it back later. I'll put it in the office."

Monroe handed it over grumpily and stomped up the stairs with Hank. Nick watched them disappear, hoping they were on their way to at least order three drinks. He went to follow them when a massive hand landed in the middle of his chest.

"No shades."

"What?"

The doorman sighed. "Apart from the utter prat factor, it's dark in there. If you want to take your nads out on a table corner, do it in your own time. I'm not calling any ambulances. Pop 'em away."

Reluctantly, Nick tucked them into the v of his shirt and tried again to follow without making eye-contact, but was predictably hauled back.

"Not so fast, sunshine, let's have a look at you. Oo, nice shirt. Ok – face up, and – FUCK!" The doorman woged involuntarily from human to Seigbarste and back again. Nick felt a vice-like grip round his bicep and found himself being hauled into the darkest corner of the courtyard by the uncompromising giant, who pinned him against the wall, calling back to the other doorman, a troll, to keep things moving. Nick found himself breathing too fast. Something about Seigbarstes gave him a fear of being hurled through multiple coffee tables. He tried to free his arm, but even with only the quarter dose of beat-blocker he'd managed to down at lunch time, he couldn't muster any power to peel those steely fingers from around his upper arm. His tricep was screaming.

In the darkened corner, the Seigbarste released his arm and muttered in his ear. "Are you completely barking? This is a wesen bar. NO GRIMMS."

"Doesn't say anything about that on your house rules," Nick muttered back, feeling like he was following completely the wrong line of argument.

"I'll add it. Thanks for spotting the oversight. Now piss off."

"You've just let my friends in!"

"They're not Grimms."

There was no arguing with that. Nick calmed right down and tried persuasion. "Look, I'm just here to chill. I'm pretty well known around here, and lots of people here would tell you th—"

"Don't try the old 'do you know who I am' act with me, mate. As it happens, no, I don't. I don't know you from Adam because this is my first week in the job, and over half the wesen in there and in the queue won't know you're here for a few beers, either. Look – you've got a nasty rep. I wouldn't let a reaper in. I'm not letting you in either. End of."

Could this be happening? Nick gaped, fighting for a way back into the debate and pointed at the houserules sign in desperation. There was clearly no fighting the guy, he didn't succumb to charm, Nick didn't trust his voice to break at the appropriate moment…. He resorted to species empathy.

"Does anything about that sign bother you?"

The Seigbarste turned and looked. "The apostrophe's a bit distressing. Oh, and 'persons'. That's just a prick's plural. And of course it's apparently missing 'No Grimms', which you'd have thought would be screamingly obvious to the tiniest intelligence. Other than that – spot on."

Was this guy really a Seigbarste? He had better grammar than half the guys he worked with. Nick tried again. "So it doesn't bother you that you're employed to keep your own people out of the club?"

"Who are you? The Seigbarstes' bloody union rep? It takes a Seigbarste to _stop_ a Seigbarste. And for a bag of sand a week—"

"They pay you in _sand_?"

"A grand! You know – thousand quid? For a bag of sand a week, I can cope with the unlovely slur upon my people." The big guy stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose for composure. "Look, like I said, this is my first week in the job. Some total cock has double-booked a Lowen Wedding reception with the 100th Anniversary of the Portland Eis Lodge and I'm stressed enough trying to keep them in separate rooms. What I don't need is you swanning in there and causing a riot. So, no."

Nick deflated. The big guy regarded him warily in the dimness.

"Look, I'm not a _complete_ ogre. You've got five minutes to call, text your mates or whatever, get them out here and have a nice time somewhere else. But if you're still hanging around after that, I'm going to pound you. Have a nice evening."

The Seigbarste returned to his post as Nick wandered back into the lit part of the courtyard and sat on the edge of the sidewalk round the corner from the club. He felt vaguely stunned and was about to thumb out an SOS to Monroe when a text from the devil came into his phone, interrupted continuously by a 'LOW BATTERY' warning.

M: Where are you?

N: Barred by arsehole Seigbarste doorman. No Grimm policy. Go somewhere else?

LOW BATTERY! LOW BATTERY!

There was a short pause.

M: Seriously?

LOW BATTERY!

M: Lolololol!

H: LMFAO!

Nick steamed quietly and tried to thumb out his last text before his mobile died altogether.

You coming out or what?

M: Dude! Shirt on. See you in 5. Lol.

It kind of burned that he'd never really seen Monroe laugh out loud: smirk, chortle, chuckle, yeah. Belly laugh? Not yet. And there he was, having one at his expense and he wasn't even around to see it. It also burned slightly that Hank joined in. And to think he'd worried about them not bonding this evening. He turned off the dying phone and stuck it in his back pocket, hoping they wouldn't take too long.

Then a shadow fell over him and he heard a familiar voice – soft, precise, playful.

"You been causing trouble again?"

Juliette. And she was alone.

**I'd like to thank one lovely reviewer for putting the idea of a fainting bear in my head… hee hee.**


	2. 2: The Flying Dutchman

**This is a re-post of a chapter that's already gone up: I was worried that an M/M paragraph (albeit only as a fantasy in the POV of an OC) might put those of you off who are really not happy with slash, even if it's done in a slightly parodied and exaggerated way, and even if it doesn't actually contravene Nick's basic straightness. I always told myself I would go through the challenge of sticking to canon pairings (as with the N/J smooch in the first version of this!) but I now feel I was skating a bit close to the wind with the first version of this chapter because it gave the impression of later slash, which isn't a route I ever intended to take, even from the outset. The original paragraph had a plot purpose, but I have found a way of making this work without it. I still LIKE it, but may re-incarnate it in a M/F fic pairing later on… **

**Oh yeah, and I do not own Grimm, the characters, or the towels they dry themselves with. Right, that's my disclaiming done. On we plunge!**

**X x X**

Nick scrambled to his feet, feeling more pleased to see her than was necessarily healthy. "Where's your date?"

Juliette shuffled awkwardly. "Well, he wasn't actually my date. That was part of the problem."

He waited for the other part of the problem ―_I'm still in love with you, Nick_ ―while Ode to Joy sung noisily in his head. That was the thing about half-living with MonRosalee – with that much classical music around the place, he had plenty of random mental choirs to draw on. He realised he ought to say something. "And… the other part of the problem?"

"Well you met him, he was a jerk! I'm so sorry to bump into you like that. I could see you were…kind of upset." Her eyes were doing that soft take-me-to-bed thing that made him miss her so excruciatingly. Monroe and Rosalee had 'make the bed' eyes. It just wasn't the same.

"It's fine. I'm feeling much sunnier all of a sudden. So… where's your non-date now?"

"I left him outside Mont Blanc. I was supposed to be going to a party – no idea where it is – and he was supposed to be escorting me, but…"

Nick frowned. "He got a little grabby?"

"Yeah."

Forgetting himself, he tucked a bunch of hair behind her ear and cupped her face. "You ok?"

She looked at him in mingled confusion and wariness for a moment and he was about to step off when she took his hand and gave it a light squeeze. "I'm fine. Really. I just want to go home now."

"Can I get you a cab?"

"Nick, I can walk. As you know, I only live a two blocks away now, so…."

And they were onto awkward history territory. Nick tried to focus on her and not the leering posse of Ziegvolken at the back of the club queue. "I'd feel much better knowing you got home ok. Lots of unsavoury characters out and about tonight." He heard a whoop behind him and ground his teeth. "Will you excuse me?"

He marched over to the little group and homed in on a lanky guy making obscene crotch-grabbing motions. Smiling tightly, he slapped one hand on the idiot's shoulder, the other overlaying the crotch-grabbing hand. The idiot stared at him then whitened, as did his friends.

"Would you like to keep your stones?"

"Y..Y..yeah?"

"Then face front, and shut up. Thank you." Nick returned to Juliette, who looked rather startled.

"Were you always this over-protective?"

"I hope so."

She smiled wryly. "Well, good for you. But I can handle myself."

God, she was so stubborn! "What if that dicktuft catches up with you?"

"He won't." She lifted her chin. "I calmed him with my handbag."

A deep laugh rumbled from the darkness of the sidewalk, a very familiar laugh, followed by a deeper voice with its bass Dutch accent. "You _calmed _him?" As Nick was expecting, his first partner stepped out into light of the club courtyard, carrying his own vast and endless shadow in front of him. "Mevrouw, you have an understated turn of phrase. He is certainly calm. Horizontal, in fact."

Nick gaped. Surprise, awe and pride battled for supremacy. "You… decked him?"

"She _completely_ laid him out. He's going to need an x-ray, I think. She has quite the amazing swing motion, I can tell you."

He thought of Juliette with the pan of boiling water and smiled. "I know."

Juliette bit her lip. "An x-ray? Am I in trouble?"

Nick tried to look stern. Failed. "No."

Jan chuckled. "It's fine, Nick. I left him with Officer Sands – remember her? The blonde Boadiccea? She's busy giving him the 'no-means-no' pep talk."

Which meant she was probably ripping Luc the Puke a new asshole. Good. He watched Jan limp slightly into the road, bringing a cab instantly to heel. His partner smiled politely and opened the door for Juliette, who stared up at him in disbelief.

"Are you going to introduce this… huge…interfering gentleman?"

"Uh, sorry. Juliette, this is Detective Vergeer, my first partner at Gresham—"

"It is _Lieutenant_ fver-gk-ay-er now, Nick. And put a little more K in your G. You have to gravel it a little bit. And this amazing and beautiful woman is…?"

"The hell with your gravelly Gs." Nick chuckled grimly to himself. Some things never changed. He never, ever got a date while he was out drinking with Jan. Juliette was staring in awe at the ridiculously handsome, ludicrously huge, black-haired Dutchman, looking flustered and flushed like she'd never encountered a charismatic member of the male species before; and Jan was still acting like a walking diction coach.

"Juliette Silverton," she offered, eventually. "I'm Nick's…. I was Nick's – we're friends. But I don't need the cab, thank you."

"Yes you do. If you don't get in, we'll bundle you." Jan gave his trademark devastating smile, lopsided with a prominent eyetooth, and Nick groaned inwardly. Just as he was making progress…

"Bundle me at your own risk!"

Nick was about to try, when Jan's face became serious. "Would it encourage you to get in that cab if I told you that Officer Sands found Rohypnol in Luc Dujardin's pocket?"

She went white. "What? He had roofies?"

Nick realised he was still holding her hand. He squeezed it. "Hop in, please, Jules."

She did, without argument. Nick bent to say goodbye, and was pleasantly surprised to see Jan tacitly retreat to let him do so. Juliette buckled in, swung the door closed and went to peck him on the cheek through the open window. He bent and went for the opposite cheek. Their lips met. They didn't part immediately. A peck turned into an uncertain nuzzle, each testing the water. Ode to Joy was back in his head, chorusing noisily. He was amazed she couldn't feel his hammering pulse through the light touch. She pulled back and put a light hand to his face.

"It was really nice to see you. Don't be a stranger, ok?" She gave him her new card and pulled the door closed. Then she was off. Nick pocketed it, his head swimming in dreamland. Progress.

A tetchy, strident voice boomed out from behind him. "Oi! Silver boy, didn't I tell you to sod off?"

God, someone always had to ruin the mood. "You sod off!" Nick yelled impetuously over his shoulder and waited for the doorman to stomp over and eject him… somewhere. There was rumbling discontent from the club door, but he was left alone.

"Did he really have rohypnol in his pocket?"

Jan shrugged painfully as he eased himself down against the courtyard wall in the darkness. "Yes. I'm afraid it wasn't just a scare tactic."

Nick was concerned. Jan used one arm to feel his way down to the ground, the other was clamped close to his left side. Before he dipped completely into shadow, Nick could see the cut lip, the greyed cheekbone and a gash disappearing into the hairline. Maybe that's what Juliette had been staring at – wondering how such a massive guy got himself pounded. And come to think of it –Jan had frightened her into the cab. Usually, he would just 'bundle' people if they didn't do what he asked, and there wasn't a great deal they could do about it. Nick sat down next to him.

"What happened to you?"

Jan swallowed hard. "I hesitate to admit… but I got my ass handed to me."

Nick remembered what Hank said about half the Gresham PD narcotics team being in the hospital. "You weren't in the Southlands raid, were you?"

"No…. no, this is… something else. I am back at Gresham, but with vice. A 1-year placement. See where that takes me. I'm gunning for Captain, Nick. Wilson's retiring in two years. More time in one place, less time on the streets. Better for my kid."

Nick smiled. He couldn't picture his favourite womaniser with a child in tow. "Got a picture?"

"Uh, yeah…"

Nick's concern heightened as Jan had to tip slightly to get his wallet out of his pocket and helped him to fish it out. "Catch your breath. I'll find it." It didn't take long. In pride of place was a picture of a little guy, about four or five, sitting in the cab of a squad car, little fingers gripping the wheel. He had enormous green eyes and long curled-up lashes which were thick, black and contrasted sweetly with his golden-brown thatch of hair. He still had that softness in his face of a really little kid, but eyes that were so much older. "Beautiful kid. Seriously. Wow."

"Dank je – thanks. Theo's three."

No partner in his wallet, Nick noticed. Jan didn't volunteer information, so he didn't seek it out. They sat in companiable silence for a few moments: the doorman had declared the club full and had sent the remaining stragglers away into the night. They trailed past in a miserable, entirely human flock. Under the sound of trudging feet, Nick could hear slightly distressed breathing. "You off the clock now, Jan?"

"Yeah… I'm done. I was trailing Luc. He's suspected in a number of assault cases. Your ex-girlfriend has saved me a _lot_ of trouble. I might need to get hold of her, if that's ok, just to make a statement?"

"Shouldn't think that would be a problem. I'm sure Jules would be delighted to stick the boot into him. How did you know she's my ex?"

Jan scoffed. "Oh, come on – we're both cops, Nick. Body language. You've both got these great big waves of awkwardness coming off you. Clearly very much attached, so I'm guessing something complicated blew it all apart."

"You don't know how right you are. Anyway, let's get you and your bruised ribs home to Theo, wherever that may be."

"He's staying with my brother." Jan looked around and frowned. "You here alone?"

"No, I'm with so-called pals who have yet to emerge from the club, having told me they'd be five minutes—"

They both looked up as they heard a cry of alarm from the doorman, who was holding a limp and still-falling woman in his arms. "Ah, some help please? Fainty Fuschbau!"

Nick recognised Rosalee's hair and leapt to his feet, waving a warning hand at Jan, who was in no state to go anywhere alone. "Don't move." He ran over to her and eased her out of the doorman's grip. She was white, sweaty, and if she was responsible for the state of the ground by the door – she'd just been sick, totally changing his priorities for the rest of the night. God, where the hell were the guys?

**X x X**

Jan watched Nick as he eased the girl down into recovery, keeping one hand between her head and the floor, his other hand pulling her hair out of her face and rubbing her between the shoulders. It seemed like he knew her, but he was like that anyway. The gentler part of Gresham's Vergeer-Burkhardt Special Victims partnership: the one whose compassionate gaze had coaxed many a terrified witness onto the stand, remaining firm but kind about insisting that it was the only way to move things forward, while he himself provided the muscle of the outfit – hauling off abusers, stalking and tracking them, keeping the records. They were well balanced. And Nick really pulled his weight, back then, for a rookie.

He saw the girl stir and mumble something – try to get up – Nick mildly ignoring her spluttered protests as he pushed her back down, though helping her to clean her face up a little, talking to her quietly throughout. The doorman loomed over them both, passing wipes, bottles of water, and generally fidgeting.

Jan felt that prickle of unease again – of being watched. But that wasn't possible. He'd taken Theo and ran from Europe back to the states – unless his wife's criminal family had links at the airport and a tail on him 24/7, there's no way they could know where he'd come. He'd been laying clues for months setting a trail back to Utrecht – which would make more sense. That's where he'd started out as a cop. Portland had just been a six-month secondment with – as far as Annalise's brothers knew – no emotional attachment.

Apart from Nick.

Jan swallowed. The feeling was intensifying, illogical as it was, but even if he was right, there was nothing he could achieve by running again. He needed to tell someone what the hell was going on before he became too weak to defend his son. The Klaustreich weren't above hurting children in order to crucify the parents: even their own nephews and nieces. And he was in no state to fight anyone off right now, anyway. He sat, watched Nick help the girl – clearly a friend of his – get gingerly to her feet and rested her against the wall. She seemed keen to get away.

Who'd want to get away from Nick? He was, if anything, more gorgeous than he'd ever been; that air of maturity which had never been far from the surface as a rookie was now part and parcel of his whole demeanour. Something had aged him – gracefully.

A big black guy came trotting out of the club, looking irritated, and Jan smiled at the face-off between Nick and Hank Griffin. They both expostulated, bickered; Griffin had to go, it appeared, and volunteered to take the girl with him. Peace reigned between them immediately - arrangement made. Jan hoped these guys were partners now, not just work buddies. He had time for Griffin. He was no-nonsense, but with enough of the kid in him to match Nick. Between them, they hailed down a cab, loaded the pretty girl – well, woman – into it, Griffin got in with her and off they roared. Nick stood alone, thumbing irritably at his mobile, trying to swear some life back into it. Jan chuckled to himself. Some things never changed. _Thing about a rechargeable battery, Nick, is that you've actually got to charge it._

Nick argued with the doorman – something about a lost friend. Could he please just pop in and have a look in the men's room? And – "No!" apparently. The doorman sent his dimmer colleague to look. Not a bad compromise, actually. Jan didn't remember Nick having quite so much influence over people: charm, yeah – forcefulness? Not so much. God he was so different – so sure on his feet. He'd always had good equilibrium, a reasonable amount of self-confidence, but had never exuded it like this.

Actually, Jan reflected, he'd only seen Nick off-balance once, in a situation that would press anyone's buttons. A teenaged girl, Hannah, went back to her much older partner, not trusting them and choosing the devil over the deep blue sea: she'd turned up dead in Mount Hood four days later. Nick had taken that hard, receiving the news from despatch after a day where he'd been quite thoroughly worked over for intervening in a public slapping. It was the only time he'd seen the young guy close to tears, and Jan had taken him into one of the ensuite viewing rooms overlooking interrogation so he could get it out of his system. Then he'd propped a very tired, tense Nick against the wall in arrest position while he checked with a gentle pat-down that he hadn't actually broken anything. He hadn't: he was just monumentally bruised in body and spirit.

Nick's quiet acquiescence and naked trust in being positioned that way, apparently not feeling even vaguely vulnerable as Jan had gently spread his legs with a nudge of his knees… well, it kicked off Jan's insanely energetic imagination. The more professional he was on a daily basis, keeping his distance, maintaining command, the more intimate the mental video reels became as a coping mechanism. It absolutely sucked that the first person he ever fell in love with in his life, properly, happened to be a guy.

Helpless runaway fantasies had nearly led to him exposing his wesen in the SVU squadroom while he was supposed to be typing up reports: once he'd been typing so fiercely that the object of his unrequited love had gently tapped him on the hand, laughed nervously, and reminded him that he could actually press 'save' from time to time – it wasn't necessary to beat the report into the computer's memory. He'd so nearly woged out of sheer shock. So when the application for Interpol landed on his desk – he applied, he got it.

Young Nick was too much. Jan swallowed with a dry mouth. This older, broader, harder Nick would be easier to deal with in some ways. While he'd wanted to take care of Nicky…. _This_ Nick he would roll over for – Pride King or not.

Jan struggled to hold onto human form as Nick wound up his conversation with doorman and wandered over to him, giving him a smile that cut through the gloom.

"Right, the doorguy said you could sit in his office while we call… yet another cab. We're not going to flag anything down at this time. C'mon, let's get you up."

Jan tried backing away a little, but having hunkered down, Nick pulled his arm across his shoulders and stood easily, apparently having no difficulty in taking his weight. When the hell did he get so strong? Jan, still hurting, couldn't keep his 'public face' in place and woged involuntarily as Nick eased him out into the lit courtyard. Jan focussed on breathing, staying quiet, giving the guy no occasion to look up until he got a grip on himself.

Then Nick did look up, 'ok?' on his lips.

Jan's world emptied out as Nick's face changed slowly from the initial flash of smile, to recognition of his inner soul, to shock. Jan needed one of them to say something, and his throat was closed. Eventually, Nick did the honours.

"Jan, you're _Lowen?"_


	3. Revelations

**I've amended a typing fault in the summary of this story… obviously there's no such thing as "canon slash" (oops) and there was probably no need for a warning for a one-paragraph OC/Nick 'warm moment', for the previous chapter, which only exists in the mind of my OC anyway…. Oh never, mind. We live and learn. **

**Anyway, usual disclaimers in place, I don't own Grimm, the characters or their rabbit hutches… onwards and upwards…**

X x X

"Godverdomme!" Jan staggered back and away, fluctuating in and out of Lowen.

A full Lowen, Nick realised: not just lion-esque features, but increased breadth, full mane, hands which were more animal than human. He couldn't help staring back: not just a Lowen, but a Pride King. He collected himself, realising that it must seem that he was staring his old friend down.

"It's still me, Jan. Just the same as it's still you – Lowen or not."

His steady tone worked: Jan reverted to full human and eyed him steadily. "Can you… see what I'm thinking, when you… 'see' me?"

"No. I can't." Nick felt a little weary all of a sudden, wondering if he'd ever get used to this horrified reaction. It struck him that he now had a clearer idea of how Hank felt to discover that Jarold and Carly were Coyotl: it was all very well him saying 'they're still the same people' but there was no underestimating the shock factor. He just stood for a little while, letting Jan get his head around it. Letting him get his head around Jan's secret.

His old partner gazed at him for a long time, then finally pulled his hands down his face, slightly recovered, laughing nervously. "I'm sorry. Of course it's still you. It was a shock, and I'm…jumpy."

Nick smiled. "I'm with you on the shock."

"How long have you been, um, a Gri―"

"Gentlemen," the doorman suddenly intoned, leading them away to a quieter spot with forceful arms, "If you could be kind enough not to use the G-word in public, I'd be much obliged. And goodness me, son, you still appear to _be_ here! Even though there's an ample supply of not-here to be found over _there_!" He pointed firmly to the darkness beyond the club courtyard.

"I've told you – I'm not going without my friend!"

"So you're just going to stick around like a bad cold, even though he might be inside, pulling?"

Jan chuckled. "That's not very gracious. You called for help with the fainting girl, he came and helped. Maybe a little patience? You could stretch that to 'thanks', even?"

"Incidentally," Nick added, "'fainting girl' _is_ his girlfriend, so I know he's not in there pulling."

"Her? Really? Going out with Mr I-can't-keep-my-wallet-in-my-pocket-without-a-chain? Wow." The doorman whistled. "He's really punching above his weight. Do you think he knows she's p―"

Nick stamped on the doorman's boot as Monroe finally came staggering out of the club and while the stamp might not have hurt him, he resented the pressure, making vague threats to find Nick a nice cosy hearse to go home in if he didn't actually finally piss off. The Siegbarste stomped off back to his door, pausing only to thrust Monroe's chain into his hand on the way.

Nick felt pensive about bringing up Rosie's faint with Monroe, particularly given her little revelation – to which he was sworn to secrecy. There were pack rules, which were important, and then just as importantly, the need to be honest with his friend about Rosie's weird behaviour in shooting off before he got outside. It was like being caught in a moral pincer movement.

Monroe lurched over, hiccupping. "Did you see Hank on his way out? He said to apologise, but the guys at the precinct have gone a little…"

"Floppy," Nick finished for him. "Yeah, he explained. Where the hell have you been?"

"The men's room! I swear, they designed that place for camels or some other beast with no need to pee because there were, like, three cubicles for about a thousand people, about 50 people in the queue, and most of them Lowen with wedding bladders. They took _forever! _I did text. Repeatedly."

Of course he would've done. Nick sighed. "My phone died."

"Again? Do we have to keep that thing alive for you? If it were a pet, the ASPCA would've been onto you a long time ago." Monroe swayed slightly and pointed vaguely upwards at Jan, who was chuckling softly to himself. "Who is the… _really_ enormous dude? Seriously, what did you eat growing up? Concentrated cheese?"

"And steak. And bread. A weightloss dietician's nightmare." Jan offered his hand. "I'm Jan Vergeer. Nick's first partner."

"Ah – the infamous Dutchman! Oh, hang on, let's walk. I think the door guy's about to go apoplectic."

Jan grinned at Nick. "I'm infamous?"

"For being seven-foot, yes."

"Don't be daft! I'm not seven-foot. I'm 6-10."

Weirdly, Nick resented Jan contradicting his own legend. "I measured you!"

"You didn't _measure_ me, Nick, you ambushed me with a pencil-marking exercise. At seven in the morning, while I still had biker boots on and helmet hair. And your chair was wobbling. And we both know how that nearly ended up."

"Vergeer?" Monroe scratched his head. "It's ringing a bell. Of the Zuid-Holland Vergeers?"

"That's right!" Jan looked delighted, and Nick was pleased to see some colour back in his cheeks. "And you say it with exactly the right amount of K in the―"

"Shall I leave you two to enunciate at each other?"

Monroe rolled his eyes. "I thought he might come with us, if we were being moved on."

Jan shook his head. "That would be great, and I'd love to, but I've got to get back home to my kid. This is where I leave you guys – I'll get my own cab. Good to meet you, uh…"

"Monroe."

"Look after him, Nick. I'll be in touch."

"You'd better! No more five-year silences, ok?" Nick shook hands with Jan and steered Monroe slowly down the sidewalk towards a burger bar where he could soak up some of the alcohol. "How much did you have to drink? You were only in there half an hour – most of it queueing, by the sounds of it."

"Uh… four beers. No, three really. Hank's was an alcohol-free. Doesn't count."

Nick blinked. "Christ. No wonder you needed to pee. Um… why?"

"The round cost sixteen bucks! You got barred, Hank had to go, so I kinda… threw them down my throat, then helped myself to some asshole's beer when he was mean to his girlfriend. Right – where are we bad boys going now? We're fresh out of wesen-only options, unless you count Dan's Blutbad hangout, but we can always go be annoying somewhere normal."

Nick wanted somewhere quiet. "Let's get something to eat and just… play it by ear."

"Sounds a bit dull, but ok."

"I, uh… saw Rosalee this evening, outside the club. Hank actually took her home."

"Oh yeah, I saw her briefly – not to speak to, we just waved – she was talking to people and I was third in the queue by then, so not desperate to relinquish my position. Did she decide to make a shorter night of it?"

Nick felt a massive wave of relief as anxiety number one was swept out of the way: he just had this lurking feeling that she'd been out 'in secret'. "Yeah, she wasn't feeling too hot."

"I did hope she'd make it out with the girls. She was still dithering about whether she had enough energy for Serena's birthday when I left for work this morning. It was either gonna be 'to hell with the tummy bugs, let's shake that foxy butt,' or a night weeping at America's Biggest Loser makeover compilations. Oh, hang on… text… Serena. Wants to let me know that Rosie's gone missing. Bear with me…."

Nick came to a halt so Monroe could focus on swearing and texting to let Rosie's friend know that she was ok. Monroe at least managed to press send before he lost his drunken grip on the ancient brick and dropped it on the floor.

"Oh – hic- crap. Is it dead?"

Nick tucked it patiently into Monroe's back pocket. "For now, pretty dead, yes. It's a bit weird they ended up in the same place as us."

"Not weird at all, Nick. There's only one branch of Tennants in the whole of Oregon. Washington's a bit far for a night out, and those girls… like to let their hair down and do the bunny boogie."

"The bunny boogie? Who are they?"

Monroe grinned. "They're a bit shady, but they're great fun. Pretty raucous, actually, and I think it does Rosie some good. On the face of things, they've formed a Wine, Cheese and Book club and they take that side of things reasonably seriously."

"Don't tell me that Rosie's into it for the books?"

"Hell, no. she makes me summarise plots for her and underline all the 'ironic bits' so she can make out that she's keeping up. Anyway, behind their mild book-reading exterior, they're… kind of an underground birth control movement for their males, slipping pills in beers to make them less appealing during the mating season. They helped Rosie get your anti-pheromone tablet supply together."

Nick didn't like the sound of this. "What…kind of wesen are they, exactly?"

"Verliebtkaninchen."

"AMOROUS RABBITS?"

Monroe clapped him proudly on the back. "Someone's been studying!"

"I've been taking pills that stop….bunnies…multiplying?

"What are you complaining about? They've worked, haven't they? And they do have the selling point of coming in tablet form."

"Hmph."

"Nick, they were good enough for your father…"

"True. It's just a bit… undignified." Understatement. "Hey," Nick nodded at Officer Sands as she trotted past them from behind, on her mobile and out of her beat clothes. She nodded briefly back at him. Nick decided to go half-and-half with the truth about Rosie's departure, but he wanted to get the difficult conversation over with. If Rosie confessed to Monroe later that she'd taken so unwell, Monroe would be upset that he hadn't told him. "Look, you know I said she wasn't feeling too hot? Well… she was in a pretty bad spot outside."

That sobered him. "How bad?"

"She threw up, then fainted."

"What? Did she hurt herself?"

Nick shook his head. "No. The doorman caught her, then I took over."

"Dude, thanks. I'll text Hank later too, thank him for dropping her off."

He broached the difficult bit. "She seemed… in a bit of a hurry to get away. I told her you'd be right out but―"

"Ah, that's probably exactly why she legged it." Monroe raked his hand down his face. "It's kinda my fault. I've been going on about this boys' night out for two weeks like Christmas is coming, or something. She probably thought – and is completely correct – that I'd instantly duck out if I knew she was sick. And I will. Sorry Nick, but…"

"That's fine. Just take her to the doctor, ok? You want to get a cab?"

"No, let's walk to the bus station. I need a little air – she won't thank me for being the loving boyfriend with serious beer-breath."

They strolled quietly for a few minutes, Monroe's gait getting a little steadier, and Nick enjoying the breeze on his face and the weight off his shoulders. Eventually, Monroe stopped hiccupping.

"How did the doorguy cope with the fainting thing? cause… he didn't really strike me as a people person."

Nick laughed: what the Siegbarste lacked in bedside manner, fair play, he made up for in thoroughness. "He did _try_. I mean, he'd memorised _every_ question on the 'sudden faint' page in the first aid manual. He drove her a bit nuts. He asked if she'd eaten today, if she was aware of any illnesses, if she'd kissed a Lausenschlange lately―"

"Dude, that is not in the first aid manual." Monroe snickered. "What did she do when he asked if she was pregnant?"

Oh…landmine. "She glared at him." Nick held back the part where Rosie had then nodded, and threatened him with death if he let it slip before she told Monroe herself. "And then he skipped straight to the cardiac arrest questions and asked her if she was experiencing a sense of impending doom."

Monroe burst out laughing. "Way to go with 'calming and reassuring'! What did she say?"

"She offered him a sense of impending doom of his own."

"That's my gi―"

Monroe cut off and they froze as a man as a roar rended the air and shook the pavement. Monroe blinked. "What the hell was that? That was a serious lion—"

"Jan!" In the distance, he could see a giant form battling with three smaller ones and he sprinted, leaving Monroe in his dust but hopefully not too far behind, despite Monroe's drink levels. He pounded at the pavement, pulling away at the distance between him and his already-wounded former partner.

Two hundred yards…

They'd slammed Jan, bent double, against the side of a taxi and he damn near got caught under the wheels as the cab driver beat it with a screech of wheels. Even from this distance, Nick could see Jan could no longer hold his wesen form as he was pulled forward onto the sidewalk, crashed down on hands and knees, then kicked savagely in the side.

A hundred yards…

Nick accelerated, his chest bursting, and was hugely relieved to see reinforcements appear from the courtyard in the form of the Siegbarste, who crushed one of the assailants with a single punch. Nick tackled a second just in time to save Jan a further kick, trapping the slender thug between his weight and the ground. Klaustreich. Great. The Siegbarste had the third thug caught in a shoulder grip, but a flailing kick caught Nick on the corner of his jaw and he felt something crunch just before sliding sideways onto the concrete in a sea of white. 'His' thug took the opportunity to wriggle free and stick a boot in his gut, winding him, but before he could do any more damage, he was sent flying by ten feet by Monroe, who took the guy out with a single, wild back-hander.

With all three Klaustreich out cold and the Siegbarste tending to Jan, Nick pushed himself slowly upright – God, vertigo – and waited for his vision to re-engage. It was really blurred because Monroe… appeared to have shot up to 6-5 from his usual 6-2. And his face was full wolf: totally haired over with two-inch canines in a protruding snout. Not just a Blutbad… or maybe it was the crack on the head, because suddenly the wolf was Monroe again, gripping his shoulder with one hand and making him follow his finger with his eyes. He couldn't. It hurt.

Door guy stared up at him from where he was trying to ease Jan upright. "Christ on a bike, how are you even standing?"

"Dunno", Nick said thickly, and helped him to settle Jan so he was at least sitting up straight, on his knees so he could breathe properly, even if he had to lean on the Siegbarste to do so. "Who the hell are those guys?"

"Don't shout at him!" Wow. Door guy had become quite the guard dog, all of a sudden, even picking up bits of Jan's shattered phone and pocketing them. But Nick didn't think he _had_ shouted. And he hadn't done 'the voice' either. "Let's save the questions till he's actually conscious shall we?"

Nick nodded and backed off, wishing his brain would start working. He was just furious at himself for leaving Jan when there was clearly something… going on. He turned his mobile back on and just enough of a sliver of battery to call despatch. He dialled, put the phone to his ear, but could barely hear the tone. Weird. He passed the phone to Monroe. "When you hear someone, just say '10-2, Tennant's Bar, send EMT and immediate backup.'"

Monroe got as far as 'Ten' and swore as the 'low battery' warning swallowed the last little bit of power left.

Nick ground his teeth in frustration, but the important stuff had gone through: his mobile number; officer needs assistance; and Hank knew where they were. He turned to the Siegbarste, who was getting Jan to his feet with an unexpected degree of care. "Thanks for your help. We'll need you as an assault witness. Your name is…?"

"Denny Miller," he muttered, and turned back to Jan. "Right, stop trying to talk and take one step – ok, no. This is a crap idea. I'm putting you down, then I'll bring the car to you. You need hospital. Now. Be right back with the keys. Just got to tell Willem where I'm going."

Jan sank back down rather than sat and Nick propped him up on his left side, realising he was trying to say something important. Monroe silently took his weight from the right.

"You've got.. to move Theo. _Please._"

"Where is he?"

"My wallet… get Stefan's card. He's staying with Stefan but they're not….safe…" Jan squeezed his eyes shut and breathed through a bolt of rib-pain, then fixed Nick with a red-rimmed gaze. "It's too long a story, but I had to leave my wife, urgently, and I took Theo with me. Stefan's been hiding him while we settled back in Gresham. These guys are Annalise's brothers. Well, three of them, at least. I'm in the shit, let's say. Her family wants Theo back home. He can't go. Her family are _psychos_, Nick."

Nick nodded, remembering his battle in the barn trying to get the force-feeder turned off before that poor Seltenvogel choked. "Is Annalise Klaustreich?"

"Half Klaus, half Lowen. It's done something to her brain chemistry. She's completely unbalanc―"

"Hey Vergeer, I notice you're leaving your part out of this happy family tale." A thin, bedraggled, walking crap of a Klaustreich emerged from the shadows and stood over Jan, who groaned quietly, like he could see this coming.

"Another brother, I presume?" Monroe asked. Jan just nodded distantly, his face buried in his hands.

Nick stood up and made himself a block between the brother and Jan. "Step off."

"No need to get in my face, man, I've just come to pass Jan a message. Before you guys get all cosy and you're ready to make a saint out of him, I thought I'd point out that being left while 38 weeks pregnant is enough to 'unbalance' anyone. You've got a baby girl, Jan: daughter's doing well, mother's in a state. Congratulations. I hope you're pleased with yourself."

_**It will lighten up again, folks!**_


	4. I'm not your rookie anymore

**Evening all – the next instalment below. Fear not, I will introduce the little fella Theo very soon! Thanks for all the reviews thus far, they really do help me to keep a momentum and take comments into account. I hope you continue to enjoy.**

**I did mention at the start of this that this story contains a theme which is more sober than in other stories, and I want to do it justice while not going too heavy on the angst (neither Jan nor the bloke he's based on would want that). Anyway – here we go…**

**Usual disclaimers… I do not own Grimm or forcefeed Grimms anti-pheromones by moonlight, etc.**

**X x X**

Gerard never went anywhere to deliver a message; at least not on his own. He always had the younger brothers with him, or a posse of friends. Jan tracked his movements carefully with his eyes, trying to keep the hatred out of his face. Nick gazed at him questioningly: he felt confusion washing off his old partner and his Blutbad Alpha friend… Monroe, was it?. Jan used the code phrase they'd always shared when Nick was still an SVU rookie, which told him to split before things got really vicious. "It's… just one of those really…un-unfortunate situations."

"Are you really that cold?" Gerard stepped past Nick, whose face seemed to be saying the same thing – or maybe he was just dizzy. He sure as hell wasn't standing straight. Or did he just not remember their code? The Rookie should be _running, _ideally taking the drunken Monroe with him_._

"When was she born?"

"Oh, you care now, do you?"

"Of course I do!" The shout almost seemed to tear at his right side and he grabbed his ribs, half expecting something to break free. He fought to keep his tone light – almost conversational. Draw Gerard close enough to take him to pieces if he could get the strength to woge. "D-does she have a name yet?"

"She was born on Thursday. And, as well you know, Vergeer, it's the father's responsibility to name the baby. And Annalise would like you to meet her in Maryland and do that one thing."

"Maryland? She's in Oregon?"

"She has a tiny bump – we were able to persuade the staff at Schipol that she was only 30 weeks gone. It was a close call, though. She'd popped sprog 24 hours later."

The thought of Annalise in the same State made his skin crawl. "I think, under the circumstances, it's entirely legitimate for her to name the little girl. You know I'm not coming back." He hung his head to draw up energy to lunge, if he needed to, but Nick's friend seemed to mistake this as a sign of shame, muttering 'ungallant, dude', under his breath. On the face of the evidence, Jan really couldn't blame him.

Gerard sighed deeply and stuck his hands deep into the pockets of his ill-fitting combat trousers. He was small: 5-6 or so – they were meant for a much larger man. "To be honest, I don't give two horse craps whether you come back or not. Annalise has been flogging a dead horse for years, and I've told her that. I've even tried to talk her into the divorce. Ok? And I'm sorry about these idiots." He waved a vague foot towards the pile of unconscious Klaustreich brothers. "They never knew when to stop. Looks like they've been stopped now."

Jan laughed thinly. It wasn't as if Gerard knew when to stop either. At least the younger brothers had the excuse of being wrapped around their little sister's crocodile-tear-soaked finger; Gerard, with whom he'd once even been friends, had political plans that involved him first being subjugated (succeeded), and then preferably dead.

"So you're letting me go. Just like that?"

"Well, I'll need to square a few things with the others in the family. They're a little worried about, y'know, corporate confidentiality if you leave." _What, like shipping J?_ "But I'd be a lot happier if you moved on, yeah." Gerard moved behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. Jan tried to shake it off but the movement made his upper body scream. It could not be that simple: after his last attempt to leave with Theo, Gerard had rounded them up by car, quite peacefully, cheerfully shipped Theo off to pre-school for the day, then surrounded him in the kitchen with the other brothers and beat him until he couldn't speak while Annalise sat calmly drinking coffee.

"What do you want, Gerard?"

"Theo. Where is he?"

"You're not taking Theo!"

"No, I'm taking Theo _back. _You're depriving a baby girl of her big brother, a mother of her son, and with you gone, Annalise is going to need all the help she can get. We'll even let you see him off at the airport. Besides, we love Theo. We'll look after him. " Gerard squeezed his shoulder that little bit harder.

Something snapped in Jan that pushed him past the point of being able to hide the problem any longer: so far, he'd kept the violence to himself so Theo didn't lose the concept of him being a father that could protect him. To continue to do so now would simply endanger his son. The idea of someone as powerful as Theo would grow up to be – both strong _and _smart – in the hands of these toxic people? No way. He managed a feline growl but still couldn't woge.

"I'm not the only one painting half a rosy family picture, here. _Your_ idea of 'looking after Theo' is to take him to school so he can't interfere when you get the baseball bats out."

"What?" Nick stepped towards him, his eyes suddenly a lot more focussed. "They're responsible for this…." He waved vaguely at Jan's face, "mess? When, Jan?"

There was something hard and uncompromising in Nick's stare that froze him to the bone. He told the truth like he had no choice or option to soften it. "Two weeks ago."

Monroe grimaced at him. "Hell – what did you look like two weeks ago?"

Gerard finally seemed to notice his backup and glared at Nick. "And you are…?"

"Detective Nick Burkhardt."

"An officer, great! Can we talk about charges for child abduction?"

"I'm more interested in a conversation about a sustained pattern of abuse. Fifteen-to-twenty years? Shall we have that conversation instead?"

As Nick approached Gerard, Jan felt the little shit move closer behind him, clearly sensing the situation getting out of control.

"I've never touched him."

"Swinging a baseball bat counts."

"Good luck proving that." Gerard leant into Jan's ear and growled. "Waar is Theo? Je moet me nu helpen of het zal slecht einden. Mijn vrienden zijn here."

Jan froze: he was right – it couldn't end well: Gerard was accompanied and the icy feeling creeping up inside his chest told him that Gerard's 'friends' were very, very local. "Nick, run. Run!"

"WAAR IS THEO?" Gerard landed him a sharp punch in the small of the back that sent fire after the ice, ripping pain up his backs and down his legs. He dropped down on hands and knees and felt the ground go soft beneath him.

"Gaan naar de Hel!... Nick, would you _run_ for …f'ks sake…"

Nick grabbed Gerard by the throat and, probably only happening in Jan's swimming vision, lifted him off the ground by his neck, carrying him away. He saw Gerard swipe at Nick's side, which made no obvious impact on his 'Grimm' grip, the only thing distracting him from choking the struggling Klaustreich entirely being the increasingly urgent alerts from his friend.

"Uh Nick… the asshole has reinforcements."

Jan saw Klaustreich after Klaustriech pop out of the darkness and registered a flicker of panic cross Nick's face, even as he threw Gerard against the courtyard wall like he was a mailsack. "Just … get out of here, will you?"

"I'm so sorry, Jan—"

Jan understood. He took a deep breath and grabbed Nick's arm. "Leave me - go find Theo, look after him ―Nick, what the hell are you…doing?" Nick bent down in front of him and hauled him up on his knees, none-too-gently.

"Shut it, Jan. I'm not your rookie anymore. I'm sorry, but this is really going to _hurt_." And it did: Nick grabbed his arm, pulled him forward, stooped his shoulder into his gut then stood, firelifting him over his shoulders and running towards the club door, his Bavarian Alpha friend defending the rear with an intimidating roar. Jan managed three or four jolts before whiting out altogether.

**X x X**

Pelting for the club door, Nick felt rather than heard a roar from behind that was completely disproportionate to Monroe's wildest Blutbad tempers but clearly came from him, since the extra 30lb he suddenly appeared to be carrying was likely due to Jan completely passing out. For the moment, he had a clear run and tried to head for the stronger outline of the two Dennies bursting out of the front club door and thundering towards him.

The Siegbarste swerved somewhat, but was suddenly upon him, hoisting Jan off his shoulders. "Give him!" – ah hell!"

Nick registered Denny's boot fly out close to his ear and saw out of the corner of his eye a Klaustreich go flying backwards as rubber cracked hard into furry face.

"Putrid bell end! Have a bloody shower, will you? If a Siegbarste can stay clean, anyone can… Shit – your alpha's down. Grab him, get him inside!"

_My what's down? _Nick turned giddily and saw three skanky jagged-toothed cats in denim swarming Monroe, who was face down on the concrete, almost not moving except for a semi-conscious and pointless attempt to wipe pain off away from his kidneys through his shirt, using the back of his hand. Nick bolted forward, caught an offending boot before it went for another attack and flung its owner onto its back, knocking him out cold. The jarring sensation made his rattled brain slam against his skull: he felt the cymbal clash of agony in the same moment that wrath created a hot tickle in his throat and for the first time his voice broke at a useful moment as he roared his pain out, sending the Klaustreichen tumbling back six feet with the oh-so familiar scream of GRIMM, giving him a window of opportunity to scrape Monroe up over his shoulders and leg it back to the club.

Denny, now Jan-less, slammed the door behind him, locked it, and shouted something into Nick's face which he couldn't catch at all through the power of the club bass, nor lip-read it properly between snatches of strobe lighting: "Next… fire alarm…people out – do the _silver _alarm…office …" and he disappeared into the crowd, leaving Nick to feel his way along the wall, choking on dry ice and nausea, trying to find a fire alarm and an office, in that order. Monroe suddenly felt a great deal heavier. Nick found the fire alarm, and next to it, a silver box, the same size and shape with a thin glass covering and GRIMM etched onto the steel. A Grimm alarm? Seriously?

Nick smashed through the glass with his elbow and instantly a klaxon sounded, the rear firedoors blasted open automatically, letting harsh rectangles of light from three different streets, and people fled screaming as the white strobes turned silver and green, flooding over the tops of peoples' heads – people except for the group on the first balcony, who peered down at Nick and waved. What the..?

Nick craned his head back and saw Bud and Janie give him a cheery finger-wiggle wave from their anniversary lodge party, clearly unmoved by the dangers intimated by a Grimm alarm going off. Should not an unconscious Blutbad over his shoulders give them a clue? He gesticulated angrily at the rear open doors and flooding groups of wesen: Janie actually _'coo-ee'd_ at him. Feeling a bit desperate, he subjected his elbow to further trauma by slamming on the fire alarm, which at least got the Bibers moving quickly, then staggered towards the office at the end of the corridor with 'DENNIS MILLER: HEAD OF SECURITY' stamped firmly on the front of it at Denny's eye-height. He staggered in and lowered Monroe to the floor on his side, next to a very pale but stirring Jan.

Denny burst in behind him, slammed the door shut, rammed the six or seven deadlock bolts home, then ripped his black tux jacket off, tossing it onto Monroe's head. "Use that."

Still feeling discombobulated, Nick gestured from the Siegbarste to the smothered Blutbad, trying to work out what was wrong with the picture. "That should go _under_ his head, surely?"

"Well get folding then, son, I've got my hands full here." Denny started ripping items out of a massive cupboard and chucking them into a corner. Looking for weapons, maybe? He pulled out massive bags of polystyrene peanuts, a couple of triangular, squashy exercising wedges, a fold-up chair…

Nick took Monroe's pulse, which was strong, if unsteady, and tucked the jacket under the dishevelled head. He pulled up the bottom of Monroe's flannel shirt and tank – Monroe made no allowances for club night in terms of style - and flinched at the size and depth of the welt building up over Monroe's left kidney, not to mention other cuts and bruises. His friend would feel like hell later on: so much for the Boys' Grand Night Out.

"Do you have a blanket in—" A soft fleecy wad hit Nick hard in the face, making his head ring. "Thanks." He unfolded it, draped it over Monroe, and turned to Jan, who by a miracle had propped himself up on his elbows, waxen-faced but clearly in the land of the living. Nick grabbed one of the bags of polystyrene peanuts and propped Jan up with it.

His old partner managed a painful smile. "Thanks."

"Why didn't you tell someone?"

"I did, my captain at Interpol. That's how I got here – a managed transfer. In terms of telling civilians… well. You've seen what happens when you 'tell someone', in this situation. The only reason I did it again…" Jan swallowed painfully, "was because things were growing a little desperate. I'm sorry you guys got dragged into it."

"I'm sorry you thought I'd leave you there." Nick stomped over to the desk, where Denny had slammed down a first aid box, among other things. "How well is Theo hidden?"

The smile was a better one, this time. "Very well. Stefan is a black sheep in the lowen pride, if you like: one of my father's teenage indiscretions. I don't think Annalise's family even know about him. And even if they did happen upon where he lives… Theo has an escape route. And he knows what he's doing."

Nick watched Jan's face for a moment as he lay there getting his breath back after only a short conversation and wondered who he thought he was trying to convince. If it had been _his _son being stalked by a posse of psychopathic Klaustreichen…. Or maybe he was just too battered to let himself feel anything too keenly. He left the subject alone for a while and hoped that either Jan was right, or that his call to despatch was being disentangled and disseminated to the area cars so Hank could make some sense of it. He picked a sheet of gauze out of the first aid box and tried to peel the backing off, but his hands were shaking vigorously.

Denny finally seemed to track down what he was looking for and lunged across the room with a bundle of wires in his hand. A mobile phone charger – with a handful of ancient outlet attachments. His arm whipped up to Nick's backside and he yelped as he felt his dead mobile being liberated. None of the attachments were for an i-phone, naturally. Denny then almost upended Monroe from his recovery position as he went rooting through his pockets.

Nick glared. "What're you doing?"

"Trying to make a call. Yours is dead, as we found earlier, Jan's is smashed… Chances are, Conan the Librarian here isn't going to have anything particularly modern…Aha!"

Nick wondered what was wrong with the phone on the desk as Denny wrestled it onto the charger. "Why—"

"Why? Well call me strange, but I thought I'd ring for help! You know, could SWAT possibly drop by and lend a hand? What did you think I was going to ask? 'Send more cats?'" Denny observed the shattered screen and roared with disbelief, a sound quite audible in _both _ears, sending Nick reeling back against the desk. His balance was seriously beginning to suffer.

"I was just going to ask why you can't use the phone on the desk."

"Not connected." Denny folded his arms pugnaciously.

Nick looked around the massively-furnished room in disbelief: Denny had a kitchenette with a smoothie machine; a mini-gym set up; a line of obnoxious-smelling (yet familiar) plants on the window sill and a sprayer, but not – evidently – any means of communication with the outside world. No laptop, nothing. He was head of security – presumably with trouble breaking out all over the club. How could an unconnected phone not be a priority? "Why is your phone unconnected?"

"It's my first day."

Nick sighed. "Right. Great. Does Willem know we're stuck in here?"

"Willem probably legged it at the Grimm alarm, along with everyone else. Leaving me stuck in a room with assorted invalids and a disgruntlement problem."

Jan's voice rumbled over softly from the other side of the room. "Are you claustrophobic?"

"No, I just have… personal space issues."

"It's still a space issue."

Denny sweated. "It's an issue with space full of other people. I'm a Siegbarste. Keeping people out is what I do, alright? See my door? The seven locks of security? Does that look like the door of a cheerfully hospitable man?"

Nick considered his absolute hatred of boats and felt a degree of sympathy. "Everyone's got a phobia somewhere."

"I AM NOT BLOODY CLAUSTROPHOBIC, ALRIGHT? Stick me in a fricking cupboard on my own in the dark and I'll be quite happy in there till I get bored or run out of mental scrabble options, at which point I'll just kick the door down _and_ the loony git that shut me in there. Shut me in with someone else, and I will go absolutely spare. Siegbarste – remember? I like my…"

Nick allowed Denny's rant to disappear into the background of his left ear, not knowing what the hell was going wrong with his right. It felt wet, hot and as the ogre's yelling tingled through his ear canal, increasingly itchy. He stuck his pinkie in the ear to relieve the itch, felt a white-hot smack of pain and then hit Denny's desk on the way down to the carpet.

**X x X**

"What the…bollocks?" Denny darted over to the slightly-vibrating, abruptly-collapsed Grimm, tipped him onto his back, and did a brisk pat-down to make sure they hadn't missed something substantial, like him being shot while carrying in Jan or Conan the Librarian, aka the Bavarian Alpha Blutbad with the chain obsession. He couldn't find anything seriously amiss up to the neck, apart from a claw-scrape across the upper chest, but while that would eventually need stitches, it was hardly the site of instant infection or mass blood loss. Denny stared up at the enormous Dutchman, who was shuffling over on his backside, and who pointed straightaway to the problem: the Grimm had a small trail of blood running from his ear down into the hairline.

"Do Grimms usually electrocute themselves in the ear when a conversation's not going their way?"

"Ah… they're not known for it."

Denny groaned inwardly as he mentally replayed the fight at the top of the courtyard: the Klaustreich kick in the side of the head, the cross-eyed shoutiness…. But then the Grimm had carried both really heavy inert blokes indoors, at a sprint, so he thought he might have just been clipped. In clearer light, they could both see, and whistle, at the size of the livid purple bruise that had formed in the triangle of jaw, ear and neck. "Um… Not to be an alarmist, but I think his ear drum's ruptured. What's his name, by the way? Unless he was an ugly bugger, I doubt he was born with people screaming 'Grim' at him."

"His name's Nick."

"And you're…?"

"Jan."

"Mine's Denny, in case you missed that after being beaten half to death."

Jan smiled thinly. "I did catch it, thanks."

"Right, Can you… hold his head still for a minute?" Denny fumbled for tweezers, cotton wool and voltarol to bring the bruising under control before it spread dangerously behind the ear and into the neck. "We can't do much for now, but we can pack it so he doesn't cattleprod himself again."

Denny got to work while Jan held Nick's head from behind, one massive palm underneath, cushioning, the forefinger and thumb of his other hand forming a giant L just behind the ear and along his jawline. The process was clearly painful; Nick wasn't so far gone that he couldn't respond to the gentle but necessary force to plug up the ear canal, and his hands opened and closed distractedly and every now and then to accompany occasional guttural moans that made Jan wince.

"He'll be alright, you know. Ears normally do repair, or they can be operated on. Successfully."

Jan's eyes were dark green, concerned. Denny noted that the vast Dutchman was more than a little fond of his one-time partner. "Why is he shaking like this?"

Denny taped up the ear and got Jan to hold Nick's arm above his head so he could clean up the claw mark running over the upper ribs and onto his chest. With nothing else available, he was forced to start out with an evil sting-wipe and dabbed gingerly at the red stripes while Nick muttered irritably in his sleep. "I would imagine that he has a lot of adrenaline to get rid of, and in his current out-cold state…. Can't do much about it. It'll stop. Eventually. Best let him sleep it off, though." He got the butterfly strips out and closed the three nasty gashes as neatly as possible. "Okay, let's move him into recovery and check out the Bavarian Alpha."

Jan nodded, helped Denny to roll, and tried to sit up more fully. The effort made him flinch. "Now there's a weird friendship. Aren't they supposed to be deadly enemies?"

Denny shrugged. "Nick is weird. Rare. I don't recall a single Grimm in my living days that would've delivered a pregnant, vomiting Fuschbau to a cab, or gone back to help a lion in distress."

Jan nodded. "Enough of the lion-in-distress bullshit? Please? Depends on the Grimm, I suppose. And on the Siegbarste."

"What have I got to do with anything?"

"You helped, too. I haven't overlooked this. Thank you."

Denny flushed. "I just don't like seeing a bloke outnumbered. Any excuse for a fight. But what gets me about Nick is… how in the name of Elvis' smelly bollocks did he get you off the floor and run with you in that state? And then go back for the Bavarian?"

" 'The Bavarian' has a name, which is Monroe," Monroe mumbled, and eased himself upright, shaking heavily in his blanket. "Would you mind not referring to me like I'm in a dog show?"

Denny blinked, not really expecting sarcasm. Roaring, yeah. A bit of a slap… "It wasn't meant as an insult. I've NEVER come across a wieder alpha before. I didn't think wieders of Bavarian Alphas even existed!"

"It's all strenuous control and discipline."

"Must be. 'Cause you're a fairly psychopathic breed, really aren't you? Bane of the independently-living grandmother, scourge of the Bauerschwein… Does your mate Nick here know exactly what Blutbad species you are?"

Monroe pinkened. "He knows I'm a blutbad, of course."

"But not that you're a full—"

"Kind of hard to drop into conversation." Monroe pointed at the sleeping Grimm and made slash marks across his throat to close the conversation down. "I think he saw me, and I'll need to explain, but not _now_, ok? How is he?"

With Monroe up, Jan pulled Denny's jacket over and open, and popped it over Nick. "Tired. He was full of adrenaline, and then ran out of strength."

Monroe rolled his eyes. "Ran out of strength? I saw him back there, before I got stamped. I doubt it. Someone's been neglecting their smoothies."


	5. Tiny terror of Portland PD

**Thanks for all the encouraging reviews… I really appreciate them. I hope you continue to enjoy.**

**I do not own Grimm (sniff) their characters, or the clothing line upon which they hang their washing.**

**X x X**

It was bad if Om Stefan looked worried because Pa said that Stefan worked with a special team to rescue trapped people from submarines and wasn't scared of _anyone_. Stefan put him in his winter jacket and zipped him up, put his leather jacket on and handed Theo his 'mergency' rucksack. The rucksack was the best going-away bag ever. One change of clothes; toothbrush and paste; _fifty_ bucks; three cars; crayons; one taser; a carton of juice, and a card with a long number on it and red writing in Pa's special BIG letters. He just had to go to Portland peedee, give the card to someone who obviously knew Pa, and stay there.

Stefan locked his flat door, picked up Theo and trotted down the stairwell, pausing in the dark hallway and listening before opening the front door and leading his nephew out onto the street. He didn't get the feeling that his place was being watched, but Jan was chronically overdue getting home. Without calling. Time to move Theo. The police department steps were forty yards away to the left. Living that close to the precinct gave him a chance to recognise a lot of the cops walking in and out: he got to grips with who wore what uniform, and who travelled with whom. He'd agreed with Jan that he'd never be found with Theo in his home, or they'd lose him as a bolt-hole.

Theo trotted happily next to him down the sidewalk, bouncing over the lines in the pavement like they were heading out for a grand adventure together. Stefan could see the Chinese Sergeant locking up his car and, from the inspection of squad hours, heading into the precinct: he recognised him from a bunch of old shots of Portland/Gresham social events, the faces of all the 'good guys' circled. There was no good moment to leave a little boy on his own on the precinct steps, but if he followed him in, he wouldn't be allowed to leave until a million questions were asked about Jan as a parent. Stefan decided that his half-brother had probably been through enough already: it would do him no good at all to escape a violent situation, only to be then mired in a custody battle. Theo's hand felt so…small. Stefan swallowed back a throb of guilt and hunkered down next to Theo on the precinct steps.

"Weet je wat je doe?"

"Yeah, yeah. Go in and give Daddy's special card to the Captain. And stay there. "

"Goed zo. Goede mannetje."

"I'm _not _a tiny man! I'm three!"

Stefan chuckled at the indignant little face, but the laugh died in his mouth as Theo peered up at him, all green-eyed confusion. "Waar ga je?"

"Ik zoek je vader. Tot dan, Kleintje."

Theo _wished_ Stefan wouldn't keep on with the 'little man'/'tiny' thing. He was the tallest in his whole pre-school class. But he was also expecting his uncle to stay with him. He waved him off, chin up, but then sank on the steps, feeling his lip misbehave. It tugged a lot, which made him want to cry, and then he wanted to cry anyway because it was dark and there were scary smelly cats around, so he sat and hugged his bag until he felt calm enough to walk into the peedee like a grownup, and give Dad's special card to the Captain, like he was told. And he liked having Om Stefan around. He looked like Dad. He was almost as big as Dad. He acted like Dad did, all bossy and bouncy (when Dad wasn't having a Big Accident.)

He wanted his juice and rummaged through his bag till he found the carton. He was appalled that it was apple. But it was still juice. He managed to pull the straw off the side of the carton, and then push the pointy bit through the wrapper, but then couldn't get the rest of the straw through the hole made by the pointy bit and just as he'd started to calm down, started crying again with the hopelessness of it all. Why did things have to be so _hard_ to open? Grown-ups always wanted little people to grow up and do stuff by themselves so why, why make everything in a way that a grown-up had to help? A grownup with a nice, friendly face, a Chinese face, and a police shirt, sat down next to him on the steps.

"Uh… do you want some help?"

Theo managed to explain, through howls, that his straw was stuck. He handed the whole carton over, Godverstikket straw and all, and the nice cop sorted it out. "Dank je wel, meneer." He slurped nearly half the carton down in one go. He didn't realise how thirsty he was.

"Do you speak English?"

Theo nodded.

"Ok. So, serious question buddy, where's your mom or dad?"

"My uncle has gone to look for my Dad."

NiceCop looked amazed. "And left you here? On your own?"

Theo shrugged. Big deal! "He couldn't take me with him. He's got guns and things."

"Right," NiceCop said faintly. "I think you need to come inside with me. See what we can do about tracking down a parent. Can I take your bag?"

"I'll take it myself, thanks."

My name is Sergeant Wu, by the way."

"My Dad's a cop."

"Really?" Wu looked surprised. "Ok, so let me guess the Dad. What's your name?"

"Theo."

"Theo?"

"No, it is said Th-ay-o. You need a little less H after your T."

Wu looked like someone invisible had just told him some really funny secret in his ear. "You're Jan Vergeer's boy, aren't you?"

"How did you know? It is said fver-gk-ay-er, by the way."

"Just an inkling, kid, just an inkling… come on in. Let's get you warmed up."

**X x X**

Monroe found himself the unwanted centre of attention while his head pounded and back screamed and wanted nothing more than to snatch another three or four blankets and hide in the corner until his early hangover faded, or until it no longer hurt to draw breath. Door guy – Denny, was it? – threw him a bottle of water, which nearly brained him with the suddenness, but he was grateful enough for the moisture to down it in one go. He squeezed his eyes shut to hurry past a moment of alcohol-induced nausea and, on opening them, saw the Siegbarste slap a little gel pack between his hands and rub it.

"Can you get up?"

"Uh…" Monroe experimented with his legs and found them noodle-like. "Not… very successfully."

"Thought not. That'll be the toxic shock. Hang on." Denny grabbed a fold-out chair from a pile of stuff flung out of his cupboard, yanked it open and casually dropped Monroe into it, handing him the heat pack. "I'm sorry to say that you're going to feel progressively shite. You took a massive kick to the kidneys and you're probably not going to filter any of the alcohol out of your system any time soon. Use the pack – it'll soothe the worst of the bruising."

Monroe stared. A…compassionate Siegbarste? "Thanks." He nodded at Nick. "How's he doing?"

Jan was in the best position to say, still being on the floor next to him. "His colour's a little better. He's stopped shak— oh hang on, he's trying to say something…." Monroe watched Jan lower himself painfully all the way down to the floor and put his ear to Nick's face. He then levered himself up again with an expression that suggested it hadn't been a well-rewarded effort.

"Well?" Monroe encouraged… "What did he say?"

"Uh… never mind."

Denny folded his arms. "Oh, come on. You've actually got me interested now."

"He said 'I'm not sharing that stuff with the bunnies.'"

"Intriguing." Denny eyed Monroe speculatively. "Is it some kind of weird kind of attack code you guys have? You talk darkly about him neglecting his smoothies, and then he comes back with a riposte about freezing out some bunnies, and then you both leap to your feet and charge us, or something?"

"He's always talked complete shit when coming round, but that was definitely one of his…stranger lines," Jan offered. Monroe had to agree. He felt like keeping some kind of register for posterity: _odd things uttered by slowly-reviving Grimms._

Denny lit up a cigarette, making Monroe want to retreat to the far corner of the room. "Right, explain the smoothie thing. I like a nice nutritional breakfast brew as much as the next guy – observe the blender, if you will - but that doesn't really explain your mate's Hercules moment, does it?"

Monroe took a deep breath. "Ok – so you both know he's a Grimm?"

"Yep," they replied, like the synchronised brothers.

"Well… he's going through a bit of a transition, and he's needed some chemical help to keep things vaguely normal." He reached into his shirt pocket for the little paper packet of spare pheromone dose. "For reasons I'm not going to go into, we need to get these pills into him as soon as he wakes up. He's also been taking something for emotional regulation, although I think he's past the mad laughter and the weepies, now. And up until recently, he had been taking a special beat-blocking smoothie to keep wild bursts of strength under control—"

"What?" Denny choked on his fag. "You're actively trying to suppress a Grimm – a decent one – from being strong? What if he gets surrounded by a ridge of reapers? They're not known for forming an orderly queue with their scythes held at safety-regulation height, are they?"

Monroe resented being painted as the villain of the piece. "But he isn't continually charged by reapers, and – up to a point – he needs to live some kind of normal life. Which he can't do if he's pulling car doors off when he's mildly irritated. Having an over-strong Grimm around is _expensive, _not to mention dangerous, conspicuous…potentially corrupting…"

Jan folded his arms. "I think we don't need to worry about Nick getting very corrupted, ok? For whatever reason, the strength clearly came out back there and he used it to save my and your butts from getting kicked. He didn't use it for mass-murder."

This had occurred to him, but he just didn't know the solution to the problem. And he and Rosie had done their best to help him find a healthy medium – for better or for worse. "So what would you do, as his friend, in my position?"

Denny took a deep drag, but had the odd courtesy to go exhale by the extractor fan. His pallor, sweating and near-vomit gestures must have given the Siegbarste a clue. "You need to let him test his own moral compass, which, so far, seems to be pointing firmly north. Take a Clark Kent approach."

Jan frowned. "Stick him in a cape?"

"No, you muppet! Let him work out how to tame down his own abilities – far more effective than doing the equivalent of making him slump around the place with a block of the green stuff in his pocket."

"I was… trying to take it." Nick groaned from the carpet. "I'm sorry – I only managed an egg-cup full today. Then I threw up."

"Dude, if it was meant to come in egg-cup sized portions, we wouldn't be putting it in a flask for you."

"But it's a clue," Denny said. "If it tastes like poison, goes down like poison, and looks suspiciously like poison in the toilet bowl, then it probably is poison."

"Fine, no more smoothies," Monroe huffed. He wondered what Rosalee would make of that. God, Rosalee… "what time is it?"

"Uh… about midnight," Denny said. "So she'll still think you're out partying. You're not in bollocking region yet and, ideally, we'll get out of here before you are. No, don't get up, Nick, your eyes are still crossed, hang on…" he reached for the triangular gym wedge, shoved it behind Nick, and pushed him back oppressively. "Stay there until you're no longer slurring, then I'll let you up. Until then, as the only non-slammed fella in the room, I'm appointing myself temporary Grimm. Anyone got a problem with that?"

Monroe, Jan and Nick looked at each other and shook their heads, nervously. It wasn't as if they had a leg between them to stand on, anyway.

Denny pointed at the pills still sitting in his palm. Damn, they were almost melting. "And those are for?"

"I did say I wasn't going to go into that."

"Given that you've just told me about giving him gunk to stop him being herculean, which is quite handy in this kind of situation, I'd actually like to know what they do."

"They're anti-pheromone pills," Monroe muttered, trying not to look too much at Nick, who had gone bright pink beneath the hands covering his face. "They stop him producing… hormones that make people want to…um.. jump him, I suppose."

Denny and Jan shared a look, gazed around their cloistered, enclosed environment, then descended on Nick with the pills and a bottle of water. "Take them, NOW!"

"Alright, alright! Look, I don't need to be told…" Nick swallowed, winced, was made to stick his tongue out for proof, which nearly made Monroe laugh out loud, despite their captivity.

Denny clapped his hands industriously and homed in on Jan with the first aid kit. "Right, that's these two sorted – let's look at you. Shirt off."

"I've only got one scrape you can actually do anything about. Just hand me the gauze."

"Off, mate. Or at least open. I need to see what I'm doing."

Jan stared at the floor and flushed, slightly. "I really, really don't want to."

Having pole-vaulted to the wrong conclusion earlier – thanks, alcohol-judgement - Monroe suddenly felt really bad for him. He hoped Denny wouldn't press it.

**X x X**

Wu took Theo up in the lift to the homicide squad room, still wondering who could leave such a tiny boy on his own on the steps. Theo was about the same age as his nephew; just at that stage where they are no longer toddlers and don't have that apple-tummy anymore, but they're at the smallest possible size of little-person, with fingers slightly longer than they are chubby, and faces that still have a tot's roundness, but with the full expressiveness of an adult. Theo was dwarfed by his rucksack and had to peek over it as he wandered into the dimly-lit floor. Wu was just reflecting mistily on how cute the little guy looked, taking it all in, all lost and trusting and confused, then nearly had a heart attack to see Theo walking uncompromisingly towards Renard's office, ducking under the doorway as he entered, like Jan always did, even though Theo had about four feet of head clearance.

Then he sat in Renard's chair. Wu nearly had a heart attack, and dashed in to gently herd Theo out again.

"Uh hey, that's the Captain's office. We don't go in there, ok?"

"Why?"

"We just don't, ok? You have to be invited or told to go into the Captain's office."

"Oh." Theo seemed to mull on this. "What will he do if I don't get out of his chair?"

God, the kid had stones of steel! "He'll start off by… staring at you―"

"Oh, that's ok. I do staring practice with Pa. I'm good. Look!"

Wu blinked. He _was_ good. It was like dealing with Jan himself, albeit with his body clock rewound 33 years. "Even so…I'd feel much better if you came out and sat with…"

"I need to give the Captain something." Theo pulled a lanyard out of his coat and produced a card in a plastic pocket – the kind you use on hikes if you don't want your map to get soggy. "Om Stefan said this must go to the Captain and no-one else. So I'll sit here and wait for him."

Part of Wu desperately wanted to see Renard's reaction on returning to his desk to find his seat occupied by a very small, strong-willed boy with a fine line in slippery argument. The larger part of him wanted to live, date, marry, have small, strong-willed children of his own, and then move into a retirement home with a room featuring an ensuite bar. It was incredible: as an adult, there were a thousand reasons why you don't hog the Captain's chair, none of which need to be explained. This… kid… just didn't grasp it.

"He might shout a bit," Wu added hopefully, but got nothing for his pains but a sardonic eyebrow raise -a weird thing on a tiny face – and the unpromising appearance of Theo unpacking his rucksack on Renard's desk. Ok, he thought eventually. On your head be it. He sent downstairs to the canteen for a cheese sandwich, got an extra can of bubbly fruit juice from the vending machine, gathered some blank paper for Theo's crayons, and watched anxiously for the Captain's return.

** X x X **

Nick watched the long stare-out between Denny and his former partner and seriously didn't know who to put his money on. Jan wasn't going to budge – Nick knew that look; Denny stood there with his arms folded, clearly not prepared to move until he knew what the damage was. Eventually, Denny sighed and stuck his hands on his hips.

"Look, there's no shame in this, mate. To be honest, I pretty know what to expect to find, for whatever reason. Old bruises as well as new ones."

Nick frowned. Denny had already gone back to the club by the time Gerard had turned up, so how…?

"You were protecting your side before those arsewipes even showed up and your face is still a mess from an earlier…incident, so I'm presuming you've been put under some pressure, here. I'm not interested in giving a running commentary on how you should or should not have coped. I just want to make sure that your ribs are pointing the right way, and that you're not storing an infection from that—" Denny pointed at a damp patch visible even through Jan's black shirt "which, given your average Klaustreich's personal hygiene records, could turn septic quite quickly."

Jan sighed deeply and undid his bottom two shirt buttons with difficulty. "That's for the scratch. Ok? I'm not going into anything else."

"Deal."

Nick noted that unexpected level of care back in place as the Siegbarste cleaned, dumped the wipes, and taped the swipe-mark closed. "You've had medical training?"

"I was, once upon a time, a paramedic."

Even Monroe looked curious. "What happened?"

"Puberty happened. Kicks in at around the early 20s if you're a Siegbarste. Homicidal rages don't leave much room for a decent bedside manner, if you see what I mean. Bit unfortunate, really. I liked that job. Right, stay still."

Nick saw Jan pale in advance as Denny clapped one hand on his right shoulder and put the other down towards the bottom of the left ribs. Before he'd even got close, Jan was already hyperventilating in utter panic at how much it was going to hurt and Nick would've intervened, but suddenly Denny backed off, clearly reading the same signs.

"You know what, mate? I'm leaving well alone. I can only strap them anyway, and if that bottom one's hurting you that much, it's going to do no good putting it a confined space, so…."

"Thanks." Jan gave Denny a slight smile. "By the way, your bedside manner's not _that_ bad."

**X x X**

Renard intercepted Griffin in the stairwell as they both trudged back to the squadroom; Renard from having made his obligatory tour of duty of the cops in ED – all of whom appeared to have rapid-onset chronic fatigue syndrome – Hank having dropped Rosalee off and who was shattered from avoiding all the bombshells and mines involved in pretending he had no idea that she was pregnant. He really hoped she told Monroe soon – he didn't deal well with ongoing fraught conversations. They stepped out into the squadroom together and Renard headed to his office.

"Appreciate you coming back in," Renard muttered, and Hank nodded obligingly. "We've had reception problems but we've got a queue of messages waiting from despatch. Could you… why is there a very small person sitting in my seat? Having a snack?"

Hank peered. There was, certainly, a little dude making free with the Captain's desk. "Uh… I just got here the same time as you did, so…"

Renard entered his own room cautiously and approached his desk. He loomed. The kid crayoned, and stuffed sandwich in his mouth. He cleared his throat; the kid coloured in his blue outline with yellow. Eventually, all atmospheric tools lost to him, he resorted to speaking. "You're in my seat."

"It's a very nice seat," the kid complimented, making no moves to vacate or share it. "You must like sitting in it."

"I do. When I'm allowed to."

The irony was predictably lost on the nearly-toddler. "I have a message for you from my Pa. It's… here…"

Renard despaired quietly as the little boy lifted his sandwich wrapper and scattered crumbs all over the place.

"Here."

Renard took the card and read

**'Theo Hans Vergeer; If found unattended, 10-2; +31-6-652-231-443; Portland PD; Mother estranged; Captain Wilson aware.'**

Renard groaned and made his way to Burkhardt's desk to call Wilson in private, as he clearly wasn't going to be able to eject Vergeer-miniature from his office without unseemly force. Vergeer wasn't _his_ Lieutenant, so there had to be a good reason why Portland was the designated precinct on the card, rather than Gresham: if the guy was still working Interpol cases, organised crime targeting was likely to be at the bottom of it. That, or gang violence.

There was an Oregon code of practice for targeted cops who were parents: If Theo had turned up with this card, Vergeer was clearly at risk, or had already taken out of the picture. Renard hoped to God that wasn't the case. Theo seemed a feisty kid. He wouldn't want to see that knocked out of him so early.


	6. The Federation forms

**Thanks a million, guys, for all the wonderful reviews! I'm really glad you're enjoying it. We're coming to the middle of things now, so from the **_**next**_** chapter onwards, I'll be using my Denny pic instead of my Jan pic :D all and any opinions on whether he looked vaguely like your mental picture would be welcome, lol, in PM or in review.**

**I do not own Grimm, the characters, or the skittles they eat in the middle of the night.**

**X x X**

Hank spent an astonishingly boring half hour cross referencing the despatch call numbers with the list of cases taken up by his colleagues out in the city and narrowed all of them down as 'owned' except one: a crackly message through which could barely be heard ten-two, ten- and then it cut off. And the signal was so short they couldn't trace it back to a number. Not much he could do about that one. He straightened up, stretched, and went to get coffee. Wu and the little kid were playing shopping: or rather, the kid was playing 'hyperinflation'. Hank grinned as Wu's voice – "EIGHT BUCKS FOR A POTATO?" floated through the door of the Captain's room. Renard was at Burkhardt's desk, looking troubled. Hank was about to take advantage of the quiet moment to ask who the little guy actually was when the despatch radio went off properly, live this time, asking someone to go down to 202 Freeland to see a cabbie who'd witnessed a serious assault: three guys ganging up on another really big guy.

Hank picked up the handset. "Griffin, Portland. Why haven't they come here to report?"

The female controller's voice sounded bored. "He said weird stuff's going on. He'd rather keep an eye on stuff as a witness."

Hank blinked. "How good of him."

"Not really – one of the first things he did was tell me about how some _other_ cabbie drove off while this assault was happening, and was kind enough to give me the plate number. I suspect he's holding his pitching spot, more than anything else."

"Ok, I'm on it." Hank clicked off and waved at Renard to show he was going out. Renard gave him a distant curt nod as he tried a few times to get a number to connect.

**X x X**

Renard tried Vergeer's number again, and wasn't even vaguely surprised when he got voicemail – again. He instantly recognised the voice on the message: very bass, very professional, very Dutch. They'd never crossed paths professionally, but Vergeer had a good rep: a strong team player, a strong disciplinarian (a hard combination, Renard found) and an absolute bastard to get past on the Gresham softball team, back in the day. He left a very simple message of his own: "Code blue, THV safe, Renard." And hung up.

Ok, so now he needed to call Wilson – get the lay of the land. Coffee, first. It would delay the call till just after midnight, but she always snapped at him whatever time he called, so he may as well get a little coffee inside himself first. Just the tone of her voice was enough to remind him that he was only Royalty to a select group of people. He filled his cup and watched Theo keeping Wu busy in his office. They appeared to have moved from 'shopping', to 'over-priced', to 'out of stock': Renard chuckled as Wu handed over an imaginary credit card, which Theo swiped, and then announced he was closing early, putting the card in the till.

"Dude! I need that for later!"

"You can collect it in the morning."

Renard stepped out of view before he got sucked into the game. He wasn't sure he could take Theo's innocent antagonism as gracefully as Wu.

He now slouched at Hank's desk – his chair was more comfortable – and dialled Wilson's number. She picked up on the third ring, sounding harassed."

"Captain Wilson speaking."

"It's Renard. I've got a code blue. Are you alone?"

She groaned. "Oh, shit. Alone, yeah, but let me turn on the scrambler. Hang on…"

Renard winced at the brief, shrill scream as their privacy device kicked in, then she was back on the line.

"Ok, I have five envelopes in front of me. Which am I opening?"

Renard stared. "Five? That's a lot of endangered cops in one precinct. I don't envy you."

"Well, this is where the narcotics centre is, so, hardly surprising. Who are we talking about?"

"Lieutenant Vergeer. His kid pitched up at Portland with the card."

"Oh I was so _hoping_ you wouldn't pick his name out of the hat. The state he's in… he was a humanitarian transfer from the Utrecht Interpol office. Commander van Maarten called me a couple of weeks ago. Asked me for the whole covert-transfer shebang."

"I'm not familiar with that particular… shebang."

Wilson sighed. "A covert transfer is one where the person being moved is unaware that the receiving department is familiar with their particular situation… whatever that is. Sometimes undercover gone wrong, sometimes domestic. The idea is that they get the benefit of having the feeling of starting somewhere new."

That sounded like a shitty idea to Renard. "Wouldn't it help more to know that the receiving department has their back?"

"Well I quite agree, Sean. But that's what's written in the 'management psychology' textbook that's currently levelling the height of my office table legs. Long story short, Jan went into work, someone bumped into him in the lift and he passed out. On examination in van Maarten's office, he'd clearly been worked over, so he had a pretty frank conversation with his Commander about the urgent need to get him and his son out of the country. Hence the transfer here. But as far as he knows, I've swallowed the story of him getting mugged a couple of days before due to fly." She took a deep breath. "I saw his reflection for a split second while I was passing the men's room on the day he came into report. He was not 'mugged'."

Renard winced. "Sounds severe. How did he get on a plane in that state? Particularly if he had a kid with him?"

"That's part of the whole humanitarian transfer deal: discreet contact with border staff at Schipol airport, Jan being told that he can only fly if he consents to being picked up by EMT and Police at Portland International, you get the idea."

"And that was… how long ago?"

"He checked in… eight days ago."

"How come he's working already?"

"Light duties only, Sean. Surveillance. He has to feed his kid on something."

Renard nearly barked with laughter at the idea of the enormous Dutchman being on surveillance. "Vergeer's about seven feet tall! How can a perp fail to spot him?"

"He is amazingly good at stalking. I don't know how. But I had to throw him a bone, 'cause his attendance record came through pretty quickly and he was off work nearly two months earlier in the year after a pretty bad fall down some stairs. You know how the sickness absence policy works. It's a blunt instrument and coshes the good cops as well as the bad ones. Anyway – will you hang on, Sean? There's envelopes inside envelopes, here."

Renard grunted understanding. Burkhardt had been laid up in the ED more than a few times in circumstances completely beyond his control, and was coming damn close to breaching his own trigger point for a disciplinary warning. He absolutely dreaded dragging one of his favourite officers through the red-tape nightmare of written warnings, but it would have to be done to keep Nick's secret safe from his colleagues and give some impression of parity of treatment. There were only so many times he could waive the spoken warning on the grounds of exemplary conduct in duty. Unfortunately there was no 'Grimm injury' allowance in the Oregon State PD sickness policy.

Wilson came back on the line. "Uh… more about that 'accident' on the stairs. Let me just skim….. ok. So, it became apparent earlier in the year that Jan was related by marriage to key suspects in an organisation thought to be shipping 'suspect chemical combinations'."

J, Renard thought immediately.

"He wasn't even working the case, but rules are rules: Commander van Maarten suspended him temporarily, pending investigation, but they had a good tip-off from another source and there was a successful bust in Delft with a lot of the substance reclaimed, although no suspects were taken. Jan was internally cleared and reinstated, but he didn't show up for duties. Maarten made some calls, and located Jan in the trauma unit at Utrecht South. He'd been found out cold at the bottom of the rear steps at Utrecht Centraal and…. Eee, this isn't nice. A four-day coma and multiple fractures.

Renard felt there was something wrong with this picture. Out cold for four days, broke several things and back at work two months later? No one worried about their sick leave that much. He scoured his mind for all known wesen with conspicuous powers of recovery.

"Unfortunately, while Van Maarten was convinced that the Hildegaard brothers were involved in some kind of revenge attack, assuming Jan to be the 'source', Jan couldn't remember anything and there was no CCTV proof. Oh, hang on, there's a forensic examiner's report in here."

Renard waited while she rustled.

"Oh Lord!" There were muffled sounds, the urgent slurp of drink. "Sorry, that actually made me feel sick. Yeah, the forensic report adds to the picture in a really unpleasant way. Jan _did_ go down the stairs, but he had significant defensive wounds, and marks round his wrists 'inconsistent with an accidental fall'. Sean, he went down the stairs with his hands cuffed behind his back. Ok, so he's tough, but how does anyone actually survive that?"

Mentally, Renard had narrowed down the field of wesen to four: Siegbarste; Jagerbar; Koninglowen or Grimm. "I have no idea. So we're talking about attempted murder, if his assailants are ever found. But you said they were… family? How could he stay there and take that shit?"

"I don't know. Maybe he was trying to escape 'that shit' when they caught up with him. He probably wasn't strong enough to try again for a while, and he would've wanted to be around to protect his son. Dutch law is really hot on family, Sean. If you're in a high-risk profession, you cannot have sole custody of a child unless you have a really strong, local support network – and I'm talking 'granny-lives-next-door', here. I'm guessing Jan didn't have that."

Koninglowen, then, Renard thought. It was all very well having the strength and the comparative invulnerability of a Pride King, but that only came into effect if you actually _had_ a pride. Domestic violence isolates you, whether it's from your partner or your partner's family. He cleared the mental image of Vergeer crashing helplessly down the stairs from his head and got back to practicalities. "Could you call van Maarten in the morning? I want to know more about the Hildegaards. Would they have the resources to follow him here that quickly?"

"Well I can answer that for you – yes. They're a massive network. They probably had people over here ready to take Jan down as soon as he arrived. Oh fuck, I've just thought—"

"Southlands raid?" Renard cleared his throat. "That occurred to me too. I hope they're not suspecting him of being the informant to set up the stakeout. He might turn up d—"

"Don't you _dare_ finish that sentence, Sean Renard," she barked, back to usual. "I'll call van Maarten in the morning anyway. Give me a ring back if you need info or resources."

Renard thanked her and rung off. First thing he did was recall a few uniforms to the precinct as back-up for Wu, then got onto the business of tracking Vergeer's last calls, if any, into the despatch service. It might give some idea of where he was last. Renard looked wistfully at Jan's mini-me, still playing with Wu, but looking a little less certain of himself now. At some point, they'd have to find the little guy somewhere to sleep.

**X x X**

Monroe prised himself out of his folded chair and went to get another bottle of water from the oddly-stocked cupboard. Denny had promised progressive 'shite' feelings and, whatever they were, he was pretty sure he was developing them. The heat pack worked nicely on the welt on his lower back – it was no longer throbbing so wildly – but he felt… poisoned. Overly warm. Nauseous.

Things had gone quiet for a little bit, everyone avoiding the great big elephant in the room called 'what the hell happened to Jan?' Nick had tried again with raising the subject, asking how he stuck that kind of violence for so long, but Jan had simply said 'Nick, no' in a quiet voice that brooked no argument. It gave Monroe an indication of how formidable he probably was when things were going better for him. Jan had laid back on the floor, propped up with one of the bags of polystyrene peanuts, and poking absently at a couple of Denny's potplants from the window. They had a strange smell, even from where Monroe was standing. It was familiar, but he couldn't place it. Still, whatever worked: every time Jan sniffed one, he looked vaguely calmer. Maybe he was just green-fingered. Denny had lit _another_ damn cigarette, but apart from a weird exchange with Jan: "Would you like to cuddle _all _my pot plants?" "Yes please, it's soothing", he'd busied himself trying to reverse the engine on the extractor fan to get some air into the room. Eventually he pushed a badly-mortared brick out into the street, reached the side-switch and got some breeze coming in. He swore quietly as he retrieved grazed knuckles from the hole.

Monroe felt that it would be a good time to have 'that' conversation with Nick. He'd simply explain that he was still the same old Monroe (he'd get that); that he'd only ever half-shifted because to do the full thing after his first semi-woge had scared the crap out of Nick seemed a bit… awkward; and that it wasn't the easiest thing to drop into the conversation after the first few months had gone by. But really, it was no more nefarious in intention than that awkward conversation with someone you've gotten to know well to chat to, but never quite caught their name. It was just _difficult_ to ask someone's name after a year. In the same way, it was just difficult to find the right moment to say: 'Hey, Nick, while you're being all trusting, you do know that I am, deep-down, a Bavarian Alpha blutbad and therefore a barely-constrained psychopath, don't you?' Denny was right – wieder Alphas were unheard of. For good reason. His control was slipping: getting enraged by melancholy bison taking up his space at home; getting drunk, getting enraged, letting the full wolf out… hell, great, now he was scaring himself _out_ of talking to Nick.

"Uh Nick, there's been something I've been meaning to talk to you about…. Nick?"

His friend's eyes were closed, he was pale, and his head had dropped over the back of the triangular squashy thing that was holding him mostly on a slope.

"Nick! You ok?"

"Nnf."

Monroe grabbed a spare bag of polystyrene peanuts, chucked it behind the wedge, and lifted Nick's head onto it to at least give his neck some support. "Nick?"

Denny was next to him, suddenly, peering closely at Nick's flickering eyes. "Oi mate, c'mon." He gave Nick's cheek a 'light' pat that reminded Monroe of Hilde's nursing skills.

Nick grabbed his face. "OW! Crap! What did I do to deserve that?"

"We thought you'd passed out!"

"I was _snoozing."_

"No you weren't," Jan muttered from behind. "You don't snooze."

Monroe nodded. "He's right. You're either AWAKE! Like now, or out like a log soaked in laudanum. There's no snoozing with you. The only time you're drowsy, is when you've been _put_ out."

Denny grunted agreement. "And given you've had a colossal kick in the head and probably have a significant concussion, we'd rather no more 'snoozing', ok?"

Monroe was suddenly intrigued: he'd assumed that Nick's cataleptic sleep patterns were a 'Grimm' thing rather than a Nick thing. He turned back to Jan. "So he's always been like this?"

"Hello! I'm down here! I can hear _some_ of what you're saying!"

Jan chuckled distantly. "When he was a rookie, he once fell asleep at his desk and would _not_ be roused. I was despairing into my forearms and just wondering whether I should call 911, or see what happened if I fired him out of a cannon. When I looked up, he was sitting there…._typing._"

Denny went over to his desk and rummaged through a drawer. He found a small box and popped a couple of tablets out for Nick. "Naproxen. Should help with the headache."

"Thanks."

Denny then looked at Monroe, then Jan and popped out four more with a big sigh. "You're flaming clearing me out, you lot."

They passed round water, took their painkillers.

"How're you feeling?" Denny eventually asked Nick.

"Not…Herculean." He struggled to keep his eyes open, which Monroe found disturbing. "I don't get it – I hardly had any of the anti-strength gunge so I should be strong, but…. Why do I feel like I've been hit by a truck?"

"Your ear drum's gone, mate. It's going to play merry kinds of havoc with your balance, for starters."

"Even so…" Nick tried and failed to sit up. "I'm _supposed_ to have a high pain threshold."

"You do," Monroe assured, "or, believe me, it'd be puke city round here. I had a perforated eardrum after an infection when I was a teenager and _man_ it was dire! It almost competed with the time I nearly lost my nuts."

Denny frowned. "Let's not have that story, eh? Look, transitioning or not, Nick, you're strong, but not immortal. Maybe there's something of 'The Hulk' about you."

Nick opened one bleary eye. "I only burst out of my clothes between Christmas and New Year."

Monroe grinned. "I think he's talking about the fight-flight element of the Hulk. He only goes green and unreasonable when he's hurt, angry or stressed. Maybe… that's sort of what happens to you. Like your Dad said. You save your temper for when you really need it."

"Thing is… I'm not actually aware of losing my temper – well, only occasionally. I definitely lost my rag when that little shit punched Jan in the back, but otherwise things carry on pretty much as normal, I carry on doing whatever I'm doing in the moment, and then I get this great second wind and things just get…. Easier. And sometimes the voice even kicks in."

Jan coughed, groaned, cleared his throat. "The voice?"

"Nick's 'Grimm' voice is breaking."

"Sounds as fun as Siegbarste puberty. Should we now be expecting growth spurts, acne and wet dreams?"

Nick sighed. "You were doing _so_ well on the 'nice' front until then."

"Siegbarste, remember? I'm not trying to be nice."

"I remember you saying you weren't a complete ogre…"

"Turn of phrase. Figure of speech. That's all."

Monroe could've sworn he saw Denny flush. "I've been wondering about that, you know. I mean, clearly you're _mostly_ Siegbarste. You're strong, you're…abrasive, you keep about 200 sticks of deodorant in your cupboard – for which we're all profoundly grateful, by the way. On the other hand, you're…. smart, you're self-conscious enough to buy 200 sticks of deodorant, and you keep painkillers in your draw. So what gives?"

"Fine. I'm half human, alright?" Denny folded his arms and glowered at them, making Jan chuckle from the back wall.

"Why are you so defensive about this?"

"I have… a history with the verrat. Being Gemischt – mixed – wesen is NOT something I disclose easily. I don't appreciate being an endangered, rare species. But since it's you lot and we're in a closed room…." Denny sighed. "Look, I'm a simple creature. I like knowing what I am. This half-and-half business… it's a bugger."

Monroe found himself slightly warming to the human in Denny. Growing up as a bookworm teenager in a family physically designed to be murderous had been no picnic either. He was like the black sheep of the Bavarian Monroes – the terrors of the Bundesrepublik – scattering Maushertzen in the street, taking it in turns to bury the bodies, roaring at the moon at midnight, even when the rain was being thrown down in buckets. All he'd ever wanted to do was play violin, pass his Baccalaureate, and go live somewhere a bit more _peaceful._

Nick smiled at Denny. "So which parent was human?"

"My mum was a professor at King's College, Cambridge University. That's Ivy-League to you lot. My dad was the navvy helping to extend her study room and move all her special work equipment in, her readers, braille scanners, tape machines and so on. She was lonely and friendly, he was probably horny, and the rest, as they say, is history."

"Are they still around?" Jan asked.

"I'm only 37. They haven't passed away from ancientness, no. They're even still together, in between Dad's various spells in Her Majesty's Prisons." He cleared his throat. "Can I just ask… what was it, exactly, that gave me away as a not-quite Siegbarste? Clearly it's something I've got to work on."

"The way you talk!" replied Monroe, Jan and Nick – pretty much at the same time with fractional underlapping, and Denny managed a reluctant smile.

"Sod it. Never could keep my gob shut."

"If it helps," Jan said, "We have a word in Dutch for you. Schlaubaast."

Denny unexpectedly burst out laughing and mimed a clip upside Jan's head: Jan good-naturedly faked a 'duck'. Monroe and Nick shared a 'what'? look: Nick provided the "what?"

"Schlaubaast – clever bastard. I think I'll actually adopt that. Thank you. Ok, so we're quite the federation of rare species here, aren't we? We have a friendly Grimm, a Schlaubaast, a gay lion king—"

"What? I'm not g—"

A hammering at the door cut him off: he shrank against the wall as the pounding continued. Denny strode over and hunkered down next to him. Then they heard Gerard's voice: Monroe snarled. Nick hadn't thrown the piece of crap into the wall quite hard enough. His moral compass was still quite finely tuned, it seemed. Nick was slowly getting to his feet, clinging onto the wall, but looking furious.

"YOU WILL GIVE US VERGEER!"

Monroe was unimpressed. "Where's he from? The Steven Seagal school of baddies?"

"There's a lot of us, and four of you. We _will_ get through this door. Give us Vergeer now, and the rest of you will be fine."

"FUCK OFF!" Denny yelled back conversationally, then turned to Jan, hands on shoulders. "Look, I've got a plan, but it involves getting you close to the door. Do you trust me?"

There was only the briefest of pauses. "Yes."

"I'll need you all on your feet," Denny said quietly. "Whatever I do, just roll with it. Ok?" Monroe noted that he particularly appeared to be meeting Nick's eyes now, like he was looking for permission to get them through the next few minutes.

Nick grinned at him. "Hey, you're temporary Grimm, aren't you?"

"Right mates, once more unto the breach, and all that…." Denny shifted, roared, and the 'Federation' got to their feet.


	7. Siege Mentality

**Guys – thanks, as ever, for the wonderful reviews. My sporadic opportunities to delve into my inbox (in between cries of 'don't tread on my lego, mummy; 'where's my dinner'; and 'can you ignore your flu long enough to help me take this tree down'?) have made me feel positively bouncy! So here the second half of the story begins!**

**New picture… here's my Denny. Hope you like. Please do feel free to rate out of 10 how close he comes to your mental image...**

**Usual disclaimers… I do not own Grimm, any of the characters, or the peanuts that the script-writers eat late into the night while they're thinking of ways of destroying Nick's poor romantic spirit (dark mutters)…. I think I'm going to have to find a way of tampering with those peanuts to get dem script-writers to LIGHTEN UP A BIT!…**

**X x X**

Hank followed the satnav directions up to 202 Freeland and déjà vu crept up on him before he'd hit the tertiary South Portland ringroad. He'd left for Tennant's Bar with Nick earlier in a cab so hadn't associated the address with his surroundings, but it was now pretty obvious where he was heading. Whether it was a sixth-sense of danger or general discomfort at the idea of wading into something possibly thing-related without Nick around to help, something induced him to park a block down from the club and stroll down the sidewalk until he found the driver who'd raised the alert. The smell of greasy pizza from an open window made him pause at a car diagonally opposite the corner of the Tennant's Bar courtyard and a round, puffy face stuck out of the driver window, urgently whispering that he should get in the back.

Hank took this in his stride, choosing the path of most information, most quickly, rather than make an abrupt point that, actually, he got to decide where they had their conversation. He clambered in and slammed the door. "Talk to me."

"I saw this driver leave mid-assault. One really big guy, three smaller guys, seriously laying into him, and he drives off! I got his plate number, do you―"

"No, you gave that to despatch. My colleagues can follow up on charges of failing to stop – I'm here about the assault. Where was it?"

Hank ground his teeth through the description: between the cabbie's racist comments about Eduardo Lorca of 'abandoning cabbie' fame and his endless working hours and his habit of half-shouting every tenth syllable, he was ready to bend the guy over into his own pizza halfway through. But two details caught his interest: firstly, a reasonable estimate of the size of the assault victim and a possible identity.

If he'd been visible from the upper chest upwards above the roof of a cab, he'd be about seven feet tall. The cabbie had observed that he thought the guy was already hurt before they laid into him, because he took one little pop in the ribs and 'he yelled like a fucking wounded lion and it _dropped _him, dude!' Sounded very much like Lieutenant Vergeer, back from Europe. He'd heard rumours in dressing rooms and on email about the state he was in when reporting back to work at Gresham: what the hell happened to the guy? The official, discreet word was a mugging: the disbelief was rife. Most of them knew Vergeer from a half-decade ago: he was ludicrously polite, but also uncompromising, semi-invincible, and a crack-shot bruiser.

Secondly – a description of his rescuers: bearded guy in a plaid shirt; smaller guy in a silver shirt, and some guy in a tux. The former two sounded very much like Monroe and Nick. Evidently they'd done well until another guy showed up, who made the mistake of slamming Vergeer a little more and had been thrown up against the wall like he weighed nothing. And then a whole tonne of other guys had shown up with bottles and bats and he didn't see anything else because he'd been busy keeping a low profile on the floor of his cab.

"Show me where it happened." Hank got out the cab and waited for the cabbie to follow.

Cabbie seemed to ponder, nervously. "You armed?"

"I'm a cop. Yeah, I'm armed."

"Um… ok then. We gotta trot slow, though. I got something of a limp."

"Let's cross, and you can tell me about the 'big guy' first. How big are we talking, exactly?"

"Kinda hard to gauge, cause he was wearing a black shirt and it's dark, but before he got smacked down, the top of his head was about level with the edge of that club sign right there."

The bottom edge of the glossy sign for 'Tennant's Bar' on the right-hand side of the courtyard was a good hand-height above his head, which put the guy at about 6-9 to 6-11, and the black shirt just shouted 'VERGEER'.

"So we had three assailants and three rescuers – and all have disappeared. You have no idea where they went?"

"Well, it looked like all they went back into the club, but they couldn't have stayed long 'cause the fire alarm went off."

"Yeah?" The place was creepy-quiet, apart from the throb of James Brown's 'Get up Offa that thing' pounding through the night. The fire doors round the back must still be open. "Did the fire brigade not arrive?"

"Uh, no. probably one of the new intelligent alarms – the brigade will only come if called or if one of the signal boxes light up: the system just gets people out the building."

Hank eyed the cabbie askance. "Right. How do you know about these alarms?"

"My nephew's picking me up after shift. As you can no doubt tell, I had a drink to cope with the shock. He's with South Portland Fire Department."

"Right," Hank muttered, not really giving half a crap. He hoped that said nephew was a little more tolerant than the cab driver, considering that half of SPFD were Latino. "Got a card? Because I'll need to get in touch."

A slightly greasy rectangle was produced with a pre-prescribed fare of $10 scrawled on it, and a badly printed name and number. Hanks smiled thinly and stuck it in his wallet. "Thanks, I'll take it from here."

The coward didn't need to be told twice and shuffled across the street to reunite with his pizza. Hank had to agree that the place was creepy – the front doors were closed, unusual for a club when before 1 in the morning – but the thump of music continued from within, moving from James Brown to 'Can't get you out of my head'. The sheer volume of Kylie imploring the airwaves of the skyline made the empty streets seem lonelier than they actually were. Still – a damn catchy tune – a beat to catch assholes by. He tapped his foot while examining the tyre markings in the gutter, and something shiny, a couple of inches from his little toe, caught his eye. He hunkered down by the kerb and picked it up. It was a police badge on one of the brand-new warrant wallets. He wasn't at all surprised to find, on the ID, 'Jan Gregor Vergeer'. He winced. He had to be in a bad way if Nick had felt the need to 'airlift' him out of there.

Worse – there was blood on the sidewalk, and, given the kind of situations Nick usually found himself in – it may well turn out to have all manners of complicated DNA make-ups. And there were lion-like roars involved. Right outside a wesen club.

Shit. Shit, shit and shit.

Hank got his cell out and was about to ring Renard, when he paused. What the hell was he going to say, exactly? How should he play this? As a secret partner of a possibly-injured Grimm, or as a straight cop, finding the badge of a senior officer, as Vergeer was now? For the first time, he had a sincere and proper degree of empathy with Nick for not always knowing how to field a situation for the best. Hopefully, they'd have retreated somewhere safe, but he was painfully aware that his buddy had obeyed the no-guns, no-badges rule to the line when they set out for the evening.

He went for a quick recce, just to see if he could find them holed up in the club somewhere. Wherever they were, he hoped Vergeer at least still had his gun with him – and then he heard a piercing howl of pain that sounded as lion-esque as the cabbie had said. For perhaps the millionth time as a cop – but one of the first as the partner of a Grimm – he steeled himself against the urge to run away from a blood-curdling scream, shoved his cell away, and tried to track the sound of the noise.

**X x X**

Denny's strategy was essentially simple: confusion to the enemy. Give the impression of denuded, helpless numbers behind his office door and, when the opportunity arose, have them leap out and beat the crap out of the little shits taking his club over and probably rendering him entirely sacked or redundant. The plan was simpler and roles had been hurriedly handed out on a whisper. Jan was to be separated, semi-battered and semi-kidnapped, as was usually the fate of a 'drop-your-beer-handsome' male captive of a Siegbarste; Nick was to feign an adoring yet entirely unsuccessful rescue, getting pounded, giving the impression of denuded numbers within; Monroe, whose adrenal glands had been pounded into the middle of next week (and who therefore could not woge to even half a blutbad in his current state) was to play dead in terms of his contribution to battle, while providing the ears for the conversation on the other side of the office door, conducting howls of pain and battle-sounds as necessary.

For his own part, all he needed was for the multiple bolts and locks on the doors to be pulled back silently, under the cover of their Federation cacophony, so that he could leap out, smack some heads, shove the owner of those heads in the broom cupboard next to his office, grab some weapons, and dart back in again with a better armoury. At least, then, they'd have some chance of escaping through the window. At present, they had little in the way of donking tools beyond the blender, useless telephone receiver, and a pile of deodorants. However much the Klaustreich appeared to loathe cleanliness, he doubted they'd find a deodorant-flinging assault particularly off-putting or fearsome.

Though, to look at Jan… hell, he hoped one of the little shits outside had a gun to leave the guy with for instant self-defence. Jan, or Monroe, with his increasing paleness and lopsided posture. He or Nick (in rage mode) could probably make it outside themselves, so long as the other two had some means of defending themselves until some kind of cavalry arrived – if it turned out that he and Nick were insufficient as a cavalry. The woge to Siegbarste had been simple enough, but the brain-tearing migraine of trying to retain physical ogre form while retaining sufficient humanity to take care of the 'prisoners' under his charge kicked in pretty much immediately, jarring his brain all the more under stress. So, as he hauled Jan to his feet and pretty much pulled him across the office to the safest possible place – behind the door, when it was due to open – they formed between them the loudest duet of pain in the Federation's male shouting choir, even with Nick's urgent "PUT HIM DOWN" resonating in the background.

At least their combined 'ambush' cacophony successfully masked the sound of Monroe pulling back all seven deadbolts and bars from the door, and the force required to move Jan had created the impression of a sudden war going on within the office. Monroe sliced the air in a silent plea for quiet and even Denny caught the gist of the chagrined conversation going on behind the door, albeit in whiny, 'why is this our luck' Dutch: "Ach, nee – een SEEGBAASTE!"; "Het geeft niet – wij hebben de KoningLeeuwen nodig!"

Monroe looked confused: Denny caught the gist, having had the benefit of living three years in Maastricht after his father assaulted a coffee shop owner for insufficient 'flaky stuff' in his coke cake, predictably ending up as a guest in a different Majesty's prison. As far as the external shits were concerned, the prospect of going up against a Siegbarste were alarming, but they needed the 'Pride King' – for something. In the background, Monroe was faithfully directing Nick through a series of reasonably convincing pained yells in conjunction with him slamming the folding chair against the swinging cabinet door. If Denny hadn't been so worried about Jan's pallor, he'd have enjoyed watching their very convincing and beautifully balanced piece of foley theatre.

Dreadful pallor or not, thought, it was time for 'battery', he felt, to see if it revealed any more about the Klaustreich intentions. Keeping to their 'code of agh', he tapped Jan lightly on the shoulder and was almost startled himself by the below of pain Jan managed to produce at a second's notice: as were the fools outside the door, who sounded panicked all of a sudden, the shadows of their feet retreating from the foot of the door.

"What's going on in there?"

"BUSY!" Denny roared, beckoning Nick to come onto him for a mini fist-fight while Monroe orchestrated Jan's further 'agony' and cries for help from Nick with the occasional tap on the shoulder. "GRIMM!" he added, by way of explanation, as Nick flung his desk chair across the room, but obediently cried out in pain as he clicked his fingers subtly.

"Let us in, and we can help you with the Lowen _and_ the Grimm. We need the Lowen alive!"

"MINE ALL MINE!" Denny bellowed back, aiming for typical Siegbarste troglodyte monosyllablism, but earning – unexpectedly – the briefest flash of a wicked grin from Jan as he propped himself up against the wall. Yeah, ok. So Siegbarstes preferred the male of any given species to the female of their own, but they took the sanctity of holding their own prisoners very, very seriously. Siege mentality. No more than that.

Although he could see how his response might have sounded a little…different.

Still slightly pink, Denny tapped Jan to remind him that he was supposed to be a smacked-around inmate, created the necessary howl, and turned back to Nick, lifting him by the front of his shirt and lumping him down on his desk while they noisily played pat-a-cake, slap-a-cake, aching man.

Suddenly, a female voice came through the door: "Jan, get out here while you can. He's going to kill you."

Denny saw Jan try to place the voice and for a moment, he had a horrible feeling that someone close to him was on the other side of the door, but Jan's bitter laugh was languid enough to put paid to that particular fear. "At least he'll make it _quick_! You guys have a habit of… drawing things out."

The Son-of-Seagal voice again: "Your stubbornness to submit drew all that out! Tell us where Theo is and we'll make Annalise's treatment as painless as possible for him!"

Jan bucked himself upright against the wall, and even from a few feet away, Denny could see the incisors grow and Jan's form bulk out. "You stay the hell away from my children! I did not bring them into this world as fucking….lab rats!"

"Theo and Sofia are her last chance – she can't wait for Sofia to come of age, but Theo's blood cultures could cure her – why would you hold that back?"

"Because she's a fucking psycho like the rest of you! It's not blood transfusions she needs, it's a goddamn shrink!"

The female voice came back, almost bored-tired. "Ok, so this isn't going to work. There's other ways of finding Theo. Break in, kill him, do what you need to―"

Seeing Jan darting for the door, in no condition to battle the homicidal hyenas on the other side of it, Denny launched himself from his semi-committed table-top punishment of 'the Grimm' over to the door and hauled Jan away with all the strength he could muster, but the Leeuwen was enraged. It took nearly all Denny's strength to shove him backwards and into Monroe's grip, from which there was apparently no escape option, even if he was still in his human form. Denny had to like the guy for that.

"MINE!" Denny repeated, but this didn't stop the rattling on the other side of the door, nor the sound of the power tools starting up.

"We have no quarrel with _you_, Siegbarste," said the silky female voice, like it was an instruction to an easily corruptible idiot. This just set Denny off – human and Siegbarste alike.

"Do you not?" He ripped the door open and smacked together the first two furry faces, grabbing the gun as it fired and kicking it behind him into the office even as he reached for the next two heads and gave them the same treatment – even though one of them was female. He stuffed the four unconscious bodies into the stock cupboard next to his office, locked it up, and retreated back inside, drawing four of the seven locks closed. "Ok," he muttered, _now _you have a quarrel with me."

**X x X**

Every action, such as a panicked Siegbarste darting across the room, trying to prevent a damaged Lowen from getting himself killed, has an equal and opposite reaction, such as a comparatively lightweight Grimm flying backwards across the furniture and smacking hard into the wall, but Nick was in no position to consider the equal rights policies of gravity or physics. He'd never had his head smacked so hard in his life and the next several minutes of that life took place in darkness and relative deafness.

Nick tried to re-construct the Siegbarste bible to make some kind of sense of what had just happened to him and, as it usually happened when he felt desperately confused, his brain got a little creative: In the beginning was the word, and the word was TABLE. And it was ordained that Adam, maker of the table, would ensure that all who followed him in the green and luscious land of Eden would get flung over said table, complete with spray of shattering glass or painful landing, to truly initiate their existence on earth.

"Nick! Can you hear me?"

Oleg Stark, by this definition, was a true zealot: there was not a single undamaged table left on the ground floor by the time he'd finished throwing him around. Thank God Stark hadn't picked on him in _Monroe's_ house. The puncture wounds from clock parts and ornaments alone would've finished him off. He felt his head being lifted, fractionally, and the floor suddenly felt just that little bit less hard. He cleared his throat and sighed with relief.

"Nick? Jesus.. C'mon!"

Monroe, angry. Angry Monroe? Nick couldn't really remember where he was. He remembered being flung; he remembered a smash-landing against the wall before hitting the floor… heard stuff smashing…. Maybe he had been thrown around in his friend's house after all. He tried to lift his eyelids but it was like they were being sat on by tiny eyelid hippos that refused to be moved.

"NICK! WILL YOU FUCKING SAY SOMETHING? ANYTHING?"

"'m sorry 'bout y'r clocks," Nick managed, and he heard a three-man collective sigh of relief. Felt it, rather, on both sides of his face, and in his hairline. Hell, they must all be sitting rather… _close_.

Ok- three men, so he was probably still in Denny's office. And then he heard Hank, talking, while the others were still doing their collective air intake. Hank? So maybe _not_ in Denny's office… Hank left hours ago. Eyelid Hippos be damned – he tried getting them open. It was Jan holding his head, it seemed, because he was the only one Nick couldn't see. Monroe and Denny were peering down at him from about six inches away. No Hank though.

"Wherz 'e?"

"Where's who, mate?"

"H-Hank."

"Outside. He's talking through the vent. Ok, _stupid_ question time, but how are you feeling?"

"Not… signif'cant..ly better th'n last time I was… _delibrutly_ thrown over a ….table."

"I'm sorry, mate. I feel like a shit. Call it a loss of concentration – you can smack me when you're better. Don't talk for a moment, alright? We need to do your vitals."

"'K." Suited him. He let Denny man-handle him in terms of pulse, breathing etc, trying to drift until the fog that made the top of his head ache so unbearably dissipated a little more. He couldn't put any volume into his voice or make his tongue work properly. His tongue was definitely on strike. It was like the enunciation fairy came by in the middle of the night and rudely stole all his vowels.

Hank's voice floated through the vent at the bottom of the wall. "How's he doing?"

Jan's voice, rumbling. Worried. "Wan and cooperative."

"Wan and _cooperative_? I do _not _like the sound of that. How are his eyes?"

Nick opened his eyes out of indignation rather than any desire to help: was it their collective view that it was his default modus operandi to be uncooperative? Since when?

Monroe peered at him from about four inches away and gave his verdict. "His eyes are…crossed."

"I'm talking about his _pupils_, man!"

Denny came into Nick's line of sight, budged Monroe sideways, and took over staring duty. "Enlarged, but not blown. He's only got a GCS of about 12 now, though, so I'd recommend med-evac."

"I'll need to press hard to make a medical case for that. I need to hear him. Nick, how you feeling?"

Nick had to push the fog back but wasn't entirely successful: his logical brain worked, his clear brain didn't. His lids felt incredibly achy. Jan's hands were comfy. They were also bossy, as hands went: every time he was tempted to drift off, big thumbs pressed against his jaw, gently but uncompromisingly tipping his face back upright, banning any kind of nice, floaty inertness. He felt like doing a 'Denny' and saying 'piss off, I want to sleep', but didn't think his vowels would be up to the job.

"Nick? I can't hear you."

Nick tried to keep his emotions simple. "I think….I've dislocated my brain."

"Uh…right. Med-evac it is. I'll be back with reinforcements – it may take a while. Do NOT let Nick go to sleep. I'm going now. Vergeer?"

"Yeah?"

"Theo showed up with your card. He's with Renard."

There was a long, tense pause, and even Nick wondered when Jan was finally going to acknowledge. Jan's hands shook under the back of his head. Finally he managed: "Thank you. Thank _God."_ Then Nick felt splashes on his face and it took him a moment or so to determine where it was coming from. When it transpired that Jan was leaning right over him, trying to keep his silent cries of relief to himself, Nick felt sufficiently moved to take a step towards the land of the living and stick a clumsy hand over Jan's.

It was the first time he'd _ever_ seen Jan lose his composure.

**X x X**

Hank moved from the vent, stretched, and made his way from the back-alley of the club over to his car so he could call despatch. Nick sounded rough: Vergeer typically stoical, but quiet in response, which to Hank, was a dead goddamn giveaway of all not-being-well. His kid wouldn't be down at the precinct, unescorted, for no good reason.

He'd reached the door of his car and had the key in the lock when a soft poke between his shoulder blades prompted him to turn around. Or, at least, turn his head around. He was surrounded, almost entirely, by scrawny, cat-like people with makeshift blunt weapons, bottles and snarls. And he was supposed to be the rescue party. Shit. He got as far as snatching his service piece out of his jacket, but instantly had it smacked out of his hands under the force of a blow from a baseball bat. There were at least eight of them. Fucking…..great.

* * *

**Jan's backstory coming soon!**


	8. Nature versus Nurture

**And on we plunder! A bit of a long chapter, this... Thanks to all of you who have followed, reviewed (yayayyay), and favourite. It really is nice, thank you. I'm so pleased that Denny's going down well – I've become rather attached to him myself, I must admit, lol! Time to bring little Theo back for a short while! Cheeky muffin...**

**I disclaim the point of having a disclaimer on this, since we're up to chapter 8 already...**

**X x X**

Sean pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to breathe the fatigue out slowly. He'd been on shift since seven in the morning and the wait as the fax machine slowly burped out the stack of Vergeer's papers from Wilson's office seemed interminable.

"Is that machine allowed to make rude noises?"

Sean peered down and saw an expectant little face peering up from thigh-height. It was a good question. He'd never considered the dignity-assault from a rude-sounding fax machine because typically – when half his officers weren't all down at the ED at the same time - it wasn't anything that had seriously troubled him. "Technically, no. But I can't seem to stop it."

"My pa says I do the worst raspberries _ever_, look―"

Theo demonstrated so promptly that Sean failed to move out of spray range in time, and he was unhappily subjected to about 20 seconds of Theo putting half his tongue on full vibration, eyes and fists screwed shut with concentration as he coated hand, cuff, papers, fax machine, Nick's keyboard, and myriad other bits-and-pieces. When the wetness assault finally ceased, Sean located his handkerchief and started mopping things down. Theo peered at him, apparently seeking feedback.

"You're very... thorough," Sean conceded. "WU!"

Wu appeared at his office door, looking vaguely traumatised. "Captain?"

"Can we see if we can do something about…_bedtime_? In Hodgkin's office, perhaps?"

"I need a wee."

One of the tired uniformed officers just stepping back into the building, heading hopefully for coffe, got redirected to the bathroom by Wu to attend the 'wee' in full security.

"I'm _three! _Theo protested as he was led off. "I don't need help having a wee!"

Wu shot him a painful look. "Look, I know it's not my place to ask, but what's going on with Vergeer? I know it can't be good, and I'm running out of ways of answering the 'where's Pa' question."

Sean shrugged. "Tell him we don't know."

"What? He keeps doing 'the eyes'. _You _tell him you don't know! Has Jan been targeted by someone?"

"By the sounds of things... his own family. Wilson's calling Vergeer's Interpol boss in the morning. See what else we can find out."

Wu's uncertain face didn't pass him by.

"What?"

"I wouldn't advise that. I've called the Dutch office in the morning for archived files before and they quote the European Time Directive at me. They're keen at leaving no later than seven, over there."

Sean could've slapped himself – God, he must be tired. Both Lyons and Utrecht were in Central European Time – nine hours ahead of Oregon. He moved to dash to his office to dig out Commandant van Maarten's number from Wilson's bundle, when Theo appeared from the men's restroom, staggering in a less than straight line because he was trying to remove his jumper as he walked. The kid was confused and indignant in equal measure, and the drawn-up jumper showed a tee-shirt with the legend 'My Daddy's bigger than your Daddy.' Ok, that was never likely to be untrue. Sean disentangled him with a light tug and handed him his pullover.

"Is Pa coming back to read me a story?" Theo's face was hopeful, but not expectant.

"I doubt he'll be here by then." Sean got the feeling that the kid didn't get much bullshitting in his life so he went for truth, but truth stuffed inside a marshmallow. He hunkered down and took the little hands. "Look, the reason I haven't been very…chatty is that I'm really busy looking for your dad."

"Is he in trouble?"

"Not with me."

"Are you friends with Pa and Stefan?"

Sean frowned. "Who's Stefan?"

"He's my daddy-uncle. He makes pang-cakes."

So where the hell was this 'Stefan'? "Ah. Do you have… mummy-uncles?"

"Yes, but they're smelly and mean. They try to pick on Pa but he's big-much bigger than them and he won't have it." Theo stuck his arms, vertically, as far apart as they would go, indicating 'big-much'.

Sean stood as Wu reappeared with a blanket, a first-aid pillow, and the keys to Dr Hodgkins' office. "I'll want to talk to you about the mean uncles later, ok? Right now, I need to make more calls."

Wu led Theo off to the doc's room, and as they retreated, Sean made out writing on the back of Theo's shirt, in marker: _Looking for Jan. I will be back for Theo. SH._

Theo gripped Wu's fingers. "Can _you_ read me a story?"

"Uh.. we're all out of Dr Seuss books here, kid. This is, after all, a police department."

"Oh not Dr Seuss! That's for babies. How about Baldilocks and the three hairs?"

Wu scratched his head. "I don't know that... version..."

"Ok, how about 3 little pigs?"

Wu steered him firmly round the corner. "Yep, I think I remember that one."

"But you can't drop the wolf in the fire at the end. That's excessive force. And you've got to do the voices, like pa does, making them all pink and irritating."

"O-kay… so what does a pink, irritating voice sound like….?"

Sean suppressed a grin as their voices trailed down the corridor. Super-intelligent kid. He felt like hiring him for some kind of live interrogation training to test his officers' mental reflexes in the face of someone who could cover nine different conversational topics in under a minute. His own reflexes were tested by the sudden ringing of his phone. He leapt across his office and tried to find the receiver under the snowdrifts of Theo's pictures. Was it strictly necessary for Wu to give the kid a whole _ream_ of paper to work with? He found it and snatched it up.

"Captain Renard?"

"Speaking."

"Good! Nice to speak with someone with a sense of urgency. I think I just woke up Captain Wilson. Van Maarten, here. I'm emailing you some documents – subpoenaed telephone records from Annalise, Gerard and Thijs Hildegaard, among other things. Either at Gresham or Portland, there is a mole. Check out two numbers: one is Oregon landline; the other is western state-side cell phone. There's a pattern – scattered activity over the last year, and then 44 communications since Jan reported to Wilson last week."

Sean blinked and checked his mail. It was always like being physically battered by imperatives and bluntness, talking to the Dutch Interpol office. "Why is this not going straight to Wilson? Vergeer is her—"

"She is copied in. Theo has been sent to you for protection. Jan doesn't do things for no reason. Did you get the documents already?"

Sean's inbox went 'bing'. "Thank you, yes. How did you get their records? I thought the Hildegaards were hard to pin down."

"For the narcotics team, yes. _I'm _going after them on a domestic brutality charge. We did a forensic sweep on their kitchen, where Jan was taken down. There is a good deal of evidence, so we will make it stick. The bad news is that it was easy to make the forensic sweep, because the Hildegaards have skipped the country. They landed at Eugene airport last Saturday morning. Captein Vergeer is in critical danger, Renard, as is Theo's future, if the Hildegaards get custody. It is critically important that these people are kept away from that boy."

Sean frowned. "Captain Vergeer?"

"Ja. The only way I could arrange a transfer that fast was to move him on temporary demotion to Lieutenant – not that he cares about such things. And quite rightly so – his son has always been his priority."

He felt like he was missing a link, somewhere. "What is so critical about Theo?"

"Are you playing with me?"

Senior or not, van Maarten's tone was seriously beginning to grate on him. "Excuse me?"

"Let me just shut my office door. Your highness, let's drop the act. Theo's been sent for your protection as a Royal. Not as a Police Captain. I'm speaking to you as a Jijerbaar now. You do know that Jan is a Koningleeuwen, yes?"

"It had occurred to me after talking to Wilson, yes."

"Then you'll also know that if you help him now, he will be the single most powerful ally you will ever have. It is fortunate that he is also a Patriarch: a people-protector, I suppose. Most of his kind are dictators and murderers, but Jan is completely incorruptible. There is no crime too big for him, and this makes the Maastricht Royals nervous. I like that – they need to be taught to tow the line. He is an automatic and great leader. If things had gone better for him here, he would have been running the bureau in five years. His son is the same. Have you spent much time talking to Theo?"

"Not much. Smart kid."

"How old do you suppose he is?"

Sean wondered what the hell this had to do with anything. He considered the kid's height, his bearing, his vocabulary... "Five?"

"Three, Captain Renard, and recently turned three. When he reaches his prime, he will be more powerful than his father, but he is a quarter Klaustreich. Can you imagine the carnage if that child is raised by the likes of the Hildegaards? A future political and criminal nightmare. Find Jan, please, Your Highness. He gave up his pride to protect his son, every kind of pride, and now he is defenceless."

Renard had a degree of sympathy for the weariness and affection in the voice at the other end of the line. How would he feel if Nick were in the same position? He cleared his throat. "I'll find him. I'll run those numbers, and find him."

**X x X**

Denny kept a careful eye on Jan while he prepared the safety basics to get everyone away from the window and back to the left-side wall, where it was safer. The window had a big sticker on the other side declaring it to be generally pressure, bullet and prat-proof, but he didn't trust those stinky skanks not to find a way through it, somehow. He'd woken Nick up, to an extent, by pulling his legs up on Monroe's folding chair in the vague hope that extra blood would make his brain work a little better. It was Monroe's flop that came as a surprise: he'd been trying to help him to move Nick when his legs gave way, and, while he hadn't actually passed out, Denny had to lug him into the corner for a much needed rest, two blankets on top to help with the shivering, and the last heat-pack taped to the guy's back to give him some chance of feeling human when he woke.

Jan was relatively easy to move. He'd pressed himself up onto his knees and made his own way, albeit shakily, to the pile of soft-stuff that Denny had piled up against the wall. He'd paused only briefly to snatch the last of the Nepetia cataria plants off the window ledge on his way.

"What is it with you and my fricking greenery?"

"I don't know," Jan murmured honestly. "They make me feel...floaty."

Denny decided to keep an eye on that particular situation: with the state that that the Grimm and the Alpha were in, he may need an unfloaty Lion King later on to help him bust their way out: Koninglowen were famed for their abrupt powers of recovery, in the right conditions. Also, he didn't want to be the one to remind Jan, forcibly, that it was just as critical that 'Dad' got home in one piece as it was that Jan-junior, Theo, was safe. Jan appeared to be giving up on himself, a little.

He creaked his way back to Nick, his feet absolutely killing him, particularly where the sock ridges met his heel and tops of his toes. He'd bought them just a couple of days ago for the new job and hadn't properly broken them in yet. Slightly touchingly, Jan observed his discomfort and tapped his calf as he passed by.

"You're limping. Did you get hurt when... you went outside?"

Denny gave a lopsided grin. "Not limping mate, just griving."

"Griving?"

"Must be an English thing. Griving – a combination of grimacing and jiving, descriptive of the pained half-hopping motion adopted by anyone feeling slightly murdered by brand new shoes. Go to any wedding, funeral or graduation ceremony, and I guarantee that at least half the people in attendance will be griving around."

Jan smiled in recognition. "I must have at least two pairs of serious griving shoes. Well, I'm glad you're not _hurt _hurt, at least."

"But this one is," Denny muttered, hunkering down behind Nick. He was awake, but very drowsy, talking bollocks from time to time. He peeled Nick's shoulders off the floor and propped him into a half-sitting position, wrapping his arms under Nick's armpits and linking hands across the chest. "Right, I'm going to move you now."

"C'nt... really stand."

"Can you not? Because I was planning on frog-marching you to the back wall, nazi-style, arm in a half-nelson. Don't be a clump. I'll lug you." Denny pressed his legs off the floor and towed Nick gently backwards across the carpet, bracing his limp head on his forearms.

"Wass...lugging?"

"_This _is lugging, Nick! What do you think I'm trying to do? Cuddle you in reverse?" He gave a monumental sigh of exasperation. "God, I can't _wait _for your brain to re-locate." Denny sat down against the back wall between Monroe and Jan and hauled Nick upright between his legs. "Right, well, while this is fantastically awkward for the pair of us, at least it puts me in a position to keep you awake. So, tell me, apart from amphetamines and localised cannon-fire, what keeps you awake at night?"

Nick gave him his best shot at a flinty look through slightly crossed eyes. " 'nnoyance, mostly."

"Fine. Consider me your Annoyer-General until help comes." Denny kept a keen ear out for sirens. He'd hoped to have heard some by now. "Jan, do you have to pull leaves off my plants? If I knew they were going to get this kind of treatment, I'd have left them at home with my cats and Bruno."

Seriously, who was annoying who, here? This was why he didn't 'do people'. It was like they were on a rota to tax his patience.

"Why'm I uncooperative?" Nick asked suddenly, and Denny suddenly felt a small rush of affection for the guy, realising he'd been sitting on this insult for quite some time now.

Jan winced. "It's not that you're…_un_cooperative―"

"Bloody is! _You_ try keeping him out of a nightclub! I must have told him to piss off five different ways and where is he now? Enjoying a nice concussion on my office floor. No boundaries, this lad."

"No limits," Jan corrected, and took a deep breath. "Nick, it's like... your body doesn't send you 'enough's enough' signals. So other people try sending you 'stay in bed' signals, like stapling you under your sheets, or... bricking up your trauma room door, and so on, but you don't pay much... attention. So when you just lie there all still, don't speak, don't open your eyes, and then _let_ people look after you…. It's more than a _little_ scary, Nick. That's all I meant."

Denny had to agree. "It sounds like your current partner knows exactly what Jan's talking about. Maybe this 'transitioning' thing is just amplifying what's already there."

Jan gave a weak smile. "I remember a certain rookie… who didn't know when to stop."

Nick tensed in Denny's arms, wary. "I don't."

"There was this one time…"

"No, Jan!"

"There was this one time, when Nick chased this perp a loooong way down Southlands drive and then had… a mishap. It was nasty – many head stitches involved, and he was passed out for about six hours."

Denny frowned. "Sounds like a fairly significant 'enough's enough' signal to me."

"It was a _nasty_ concussion. But he was so confused that he ran out of hospital and continued the chase exactly where he left off. Nine hours later."

Denny could just see Nick pelting off into the distance, leaving common sense in his dust. "That's persistence for you! What was the mishap?"

"He tripped over a―"

"_Please..._ Jan?"

"―over a guide dog and smacked his head on a bollard."

"You tripped over a guide dog? How?"

"I didn't see it."

Denny had to bite his knuckles to suppress his bark of laughter as Nick flushed vigorously.

"It was a Black Labrador, appearing sudd'ly late afternoon... on a winner's day. That's my excuse." Nick glared drunkenly over at his ex-partner. "And how 'bout you, negligent Nederlander? Your powers of obs'vation don't always run on full pelt, either. Remember the...pans of doom?"

Denny noted Jan coating his face with both hands. "That was… unexpected. But we don't have to go into that, because whereas _my _story was answering a completely relevant point in answer to your question―"

"Explain the pans."

"Noo—ooo..."

"We w're tracking down a guy accused of mltple f'male assaults in the area. He worked tables in 'n old...style rest'rant. The type with napkin rings an' ... a cartwheel on the wall. And copper pans hanging from the ceiling."

Denny had a feeling he knew where this was going, and bit his lip. "Right, and...?"

"Nick, if you carry on with this, I'll transfer to Portland just to—" Jan broke off and groaned quietly. "I'll bust you down to traffic, I swear!"

Nick wasn't to be discouraged. "The perp took one look at Jan, and ran into the kitchen. Jan followed hard and fast, like he does, then... Jan went…'clang'."

Denny didn't even bother with trying to keep a straight face. "Did he? I expect everything went 'clang'. Ornate copper pans, were they?"

"They _were_," Nick snickered vaguely. "Not after the clang, though. Poor Jan didn't look ornate either."

"Oh come _on_! Who expects a bunch of fucking...skillets in their skyline?"

"Sorry Nick, but my sympathies are with 'poor Jan' on this one. My mum went through a phase of putting windchimes everywhere. The house was full of deadly booby traps. I tried telling mum 'please don't, I'm six-seven, I don't like smashing into multiple shards of crystal', but — what was that?"

It was such a quiet crack that there was no way Nick could've heard it with his ear packed, but he clearly saw the results and reached across to grab Jan's arm just as Denny glanced over to see Jan, wide-eyed then white-eyed, slide down the bag-pile, head to one side, gasping quietly and vehemently.

"Jan? Nick, mo―"

"Yep, moving!" Nick flipped over onto his front and pushed up on hands and knees, making room for Denny.

Denny lunged sideways to straighten Jan out on the floor. He responded immediately and weakly to a squeeze on his hand but sweated profusely and sounded as if he were being waterboarded. Panic nearly took over, but Denny remembered which was the acutely bad side – the left – tipped Jan onto his right and tilted his face, checking for blood. None, Thank god. He ran his fingers as lightly as possible down the left side of the sternum, making Jan groan explosively, but couldn't feel any ribs which were stood significantly proud nor depressed from main anchorage. There was no paradoxical breathing or rasping, so … not likely a punctured lung yet, though it sounded that a rib had either splintered or cracked internally, causing a pain spasm in the worst possible place. Jan was too weak to catch his breath properly, though he should rightfully be howling his fucking head off.

Again Nick surprised him by being up to speed and waving the first-aid kit's brown paper bag across his shoulder. Denny shook it open held it in place over Jan's nose and mouth for a good ten minutes, slowing the hyperventilation, while a very pale but suddenly alert Nick sat behind Jan, keeping his head off the floor with one hand, rubbing rhythmically between the shoulders with the other. Eventually Jan went still, just breathing, eyes flickering from time to time.

"He did that _silently_," Nick muttered, voicing Denny's immediate concern almost precisely.

Denny nodded curtly, tried squeezing Jan's hand again. "You still with us?"

Jan nodded distantly, but the movement was so faint that Denny didn't know whether it was a small nod, or just post-traumatic shaking. He had no idea how Jan could still be conscious after that. Jan looked resigned, knackered, as if that kind of agony was just par for the course. The idea of that kind of trauma being routine made Denny shake with anger.

Jan shakily pulled the bag from his face. "I think...I've broken things, so... no more... humour... perhaps, Denny?"

"Fucking humour? Yeah, I think that's over! You've just scared twelve types of shit out of me. I thought you'd done a lung!" Denny had to take a deep breath of his own, well aware that he was almost shouting in Jan's ear. "What concerns me – and Nick, actually – is that apart from the obvious pain aspect of all this, someone or something has taught you to suffer in silence."

Denny sat back against the wall again, took one of the bags of polystyrene peanuts between his legs and hauled Jan up against him, pulling him up from right shoulder to left hip, not liking the idea of leaving him on his side or back. He took Jan's pulse in his neck. Still fairly tachycardic, but within manageable limits. "Alright, you've got a few minutes to recover your equilibrium, then we need to know what we're dealing with."

**X x X**

Hank managed to ignore the pain in his forearms long enough to surprise his assailant by grabbing the bat and taking a wild swing: he took two of the mutts out almost with one blow, and managed to get a boot in the neck of a third before he felt a sharp smash on the back of his head, which drove him down to the ground on his knees. He had the barest moment to recognise cut skin on his nape, a sting, a trickle, as another bat-swinging pair descended on him. Sensing broken ribs in his immediate future, he swung his left leg out clumsily and brought one of them crashing to the floor. But then his arms were caught up behind him in a double-nelson, and a quick rifle in his jacket pocket found one of the set of plastic ties he carried with him for particularly awkward arrests. He groaned inwardly as a set was caught up round his wrists.

But he wasn't beaten any further. Just instructed coldly, quietly, by the female of the group to follow them indoors. He trudged after the figure with the long blonde hair, one of the few fire-armed cat-things, and staggered his way down Freeland, a side-alley, and into the club through one of the open fire-escapes. Kylie had quite some time since moved onto Abba, and 'Fernando'. Slow songs now... at some point, the sound machine might actually turn itself off from sheer despair at the level of cheese.

In the club, ignoring his stinging rear headache, he staggered across the dance floor with its weird silver and green strobe, followed the cats to a back corridor, stumbled (regrettably) past a male toilet – throwing up seemed a good plan – and just as he'd seen a sign a few yards ahead saying 'security manager', got thrown sideways into, apparently, the 'manager's office'. It was virtually empty, apart from a filofax, chair and desk.

Following their proven proclivity for gentleness, two of the things flung him up against the back wall.

"You will get us into the other office. The Siegbarste has the Lowen."

"Huh?" Hank asked, reasonably. "And this involves me... how?"

"You will make the Grimm open the door to you."

Oh, _this _bullshit. So much for a boy's grand night out. After the discomfort of making decisions on behalf of a Grimm – to call the Captain or not to call the Captain? (he should've fricking called the Captain) - and then being held captive as a tool to capture 'the Grimm', he was beginning to understand what Nick had thought he was protecting him from. He'd been offended, to begin with. Where was the trust? Where was the kindness in letting him think he was going nuts? Now, he was getting it. No wonder Nick'd been so substantially reticent about bringing up his alter-ego in conversation.

"I think the Grimm is too badly hurt to be opening the door to anyone."

One of the creatures bore in on him, carrying a taser in its hand. Hank flinched back against the wall, trying to brace himself. Two more of the cats flanked the first, then two more...

"Get us in."

How stupid were these fools? Did they go to repetitive menace classes in their spare time, or something?

"Screw you all," Hank muttered, and squeezed his eyes shut for the shock, but then heard three quiet pops. He took a sharp breath: a silencer pop. He had a friend, somewhere. Knowledge of back-up got him up on his feet and he struggled with remaining two stinkies, using shoulders, forehead, knees and feet to disarm them. Cuffed or not, he was not being taken prisoner again. Then Vergeer appeared in the doorway. Hank blinked.

_Not_ Vergeer. While almost facially indentical, he was smaller than Jan by a good few inches, and about 8-10 years younger. 28, maybe?

"Turn."

Hank did. He felt the plastic tie being cut.

"Run for back-up. I'll drop some numbers here. Now. Here's your piece."

His gun was handed back to him and he didn't need to be told twice. He pelted through the club, streaked it for his car and struggled his way in. Finally he got his hand on the despatch radio. Time to bring in re-inforcements: the boss.

**X x X**

Whether it was the heat coming off the fuming Siegbarste behind him or the rising temperature in the room, Jan couldn't keep the sweat from rolling. Nick was doing his best to keep on top of it, if the frequent face and neck dabbing were anything to go by, but the floaty feeling was becoming all pervasive and the temptation just to go to sleep got stronger by the moment. He drifted, temporarily, and a savannah clearing popped into his head: followed by a huge rock, with him sitting on it with Theo on his lap. Joining him on the rock, Nick, leaping up the six feet in two or three easy handfuls. Clambering up, swearing about his shoes, Denny. The wolf circled the edges in the dust, eyeing it warily, then hauled himself onto a lower platform. All on board – a pride forming. A small pride, but... enough to encompass, for now, with a guy at every key lookout point. Keeping the hyenas keeping their distance in the clearing.

"I'm getting the fan," Nick muttered in the background. "He's burning up."

"No mate, his temp's fine. He's in shock – that's the problem. But yeah, get the fan."

It had been a near-faint after a chuckle made him buck too quickly, and he'd definitely felt something snap, but what was so different this time, for the first time in a year, was being caught while falling – not being allowed to hit the ground. Not being allowed to stay on the ground alone. Even now, Denny was preventing him from sliding or dropping forward with a huge forearm across his shoulders. The lessened pressure on his left side, combined with the almost-forgotten feeling of complete safety, created a heat in the rib that had snapped. He could feel the itch of the fracture ridge trying to knit itself closed. The fan clicked on and Jan got a face of the scent of the earthy flowers all over the floor. It felt like eucalyptus balm on a bad cold.

He felt Denny tap his shoulder lightly. "Oi. You're supposed to be concentrating on composing your saga. No nodding off."

"Hang on..." Jan mumbled. How far to go back? He didn't know how long his energy would last, so he focussed on trying to explain that, actually, he wasn't depriving his wife of life-saving treatment, as his in-laws appeared to indicate. "I'm not trying to kill my wife."

"Good start," Denny approved. "Though we did rather get the impression that it was the other way round, to be honest."

"Annalise... has been trying to kill her Klaustreich. Her... Klaustreich half, that is. She thinks... that she would be happier as a Lowen. And some completely insane, thankfully now dead, psychiatrist made her think that this was an option."

"Brinkerhoff," Nick said quietly, and Jan started agonisingly against Denny. It took several moments to get his breath back.

"Yeah, Brinkerhoff. She got a consult with him while he was touring Germany with his book. They made some kind of deal, and the next thing I know, she's taking steroid treatments – while pregnant. She was unstable before, but under the pressure of trying to suppress half a wesen... went completely psychotic, and still hasn't recovered properly because she is still being 'fed' steroids by one of the acolytes who used to hero-worship Brinkerhoff.

"Now this acolyte... has her – and most of her brothers - convinced that.. the only way she's going to get better is by making the Lowen completely dominant. So they're looking at bone marrow donations. I had to get... Theo... the hell out of Holland. Let's just say my first attempt didn't work too well. Gerard had me followed, found us within a couple of days, and then... registered his disapproval with a baseball bat, among other things. When I'm strong enough, I'm going back for my daughter."

Jan licked his lips. "So, yeah – I was ungallant. I ditched her at 38 weeks, after months of rebelling, subversively disposing of her dosages, cancelling her appointments with the various 'doctors', threatening her with divorce if she didn't stop destroying herself – and me. Her problem..." God, couldn't his ribs just stop with the grinding? "Her problem, her desire to push me so I crack my head on door frames, etc etc, so she gets attention for having an injured partner – it's Munchausen's by proxy. Deliberate injury for attention – only making me the target, rather than her hurting herself. It has _nothing_ to do with being half-Klaustreich."

Monroe's voice suddenly joined the conversation. It was good to see him up. Dishevelled, bedraggled, probably massively de-hydrated, but back in the land of the living. "I take it she hasn't always been like this."

"No. We were part of arranged marriage, almost."

Monroe smiled wryly at him. "Cats are still conservative, huh?"

"Still, yeah. Well, you said you'd heard of my Dad: Hans of the Zuid-Holland Vergeers – he's supposedly a 'humanitarian' philanthropist, supporting the fight against drug and gun crime. He means it, too, he's sincere, he just also happens to be a hypocritical, pompous shit. Richard Hildegaard, Anna's father, is a low-life gangster using the same fight against drug and gun crime to make room in the market for J. This we found out later – but only hindsight is perfect. Anyway, neither of us wanted it. We were thrown together on a date, discussed how weird it was for both of us, and clicked. Then she got pregnant. Then she developed post-natal depression. I tried to get her help, but she was determined that I was rejecting her non-lowen side. The Lowen don't get depressed, apparently. I can tell you now – they fucking do."

Denny grunted irritably. "Can bloody imagine."

Nick gazed at him in bewilderment. "Couldn't your family have helped you?"

"No, they disowned me. Disowned me with a healthy, guilty bank-balance, mind, but nonetheless... I got kicked out of the pride for shaming the family by apparently walking out on her after she'd told me she was pregnant. She hadn't. All I'd done was to go for a walk after we'd had a shouting row – it was the first time she'd tried to actually injure me and I needed space to work out what I was going to do to get Theo and I out of there before she started hurting _him _to get attention. I went into work to take my mind off things. That night, one of Gerard's shipment deliveries failed, and the guys from the narcotics team were all over them. He presumed, naturally, that I'd gone in to work to destroy his 'business'. Never mind that I'd been head of human trafficking for two years by that point and had absolutely nothing to do with narcotics whatsoever."

Jan felt sick just remembering the 'punishment' – the endless smack down the stairs at Utrecht station, unable to break his fall with his hands strapped behind his back. He still had moments of vertigo just looking at flights of stairs.

"I'm not going to revisit what happened, but I was 'hobbled', essentially, to prevent me from leaving again or consider taking Theo away from her. It was weeks before I was able to move back 'home', by which time I'd become the evil bastard who'd left my poor pregnant wife struggling with a little boy and probably had my accident coming. Not really good for my father's public image, so I've not heard from him since then. The 'uncles' moved themselves in, almost, to help 'poor Annalise' to cope while I was in hospital, and then never left. By the time I was back in Theo's life, he was a nightmare. I had almost no control over him, and his behaviour was... pretty close to his uncles' at times.

Nick paled on his behalf. "So you were trapped."

"Well, yeah. Cut off from my pride, subjected to violence from my adopted family, and too scared to spend more than a few hours away from Theo or show him any weakness. It took six months to get Theo back to 'normal' after I'd been away from him for a month."

"Two weeks ago, when I first tried to run with him, it was because I got home from work to find that Annalise had gone to the Emergency Room with Theo. He had a bruised head after falling off a swing. Theo can climb up that rope and make himself comfortable on the top bar of the climbing frame and fall asleep on it. No way did he fall off a swing. We just had to make or break at that point. Unfortunately, it was break, first time round, but my commanding officer was supportive." Jan smirked. "I don't think Gerard was expecting me to repeat the attempt the next day, somehow."

He felt lightheadedness rolling in from too much talking and Denny seemed to sense this, too, letting him drop down on his right a little and get his breath back. What he wanted to add, now that maybe they all 'got it' a little better, was that if he didn't make it out, that they help Theo form his own little pride in Portland, with suitable foster parents – and maybe a little help from them. He wanted to add that, as painful as it was, the evening spent with them was the best and most normal in a year.

But he couldn't add any of that because he seemed to be running out of air.

**A/N... chapter 9 coming soon... and yes, it will lighten up again. But I did promise angst and Jan's backstory!**

**I mentioned at the start of this story that my friend -(lending himself a lot to Jan in his personal situation as it was a couple of years ago) had a partner with Munchausen's-by-proxy, and it took him a year to get out of the situation as a male single father. Nightmare. But he's happy with a nice girlfriend now **** And he likes Grimm, too.**


	9. Use whatever's lion around

**And on we go! Thanks for all the lovely reviews – I hope this is a fun continuation. Poor Jan indeed... but the fella's no weakling when a pride's slowly forming...**

**Hope you enjoy!**

**X x X**

It took Sean a few goes at detaching the correct International dialling codes and combinations from both cell-phone and landline number to run them through TELNOR: again, something he could usually delegate. But it gave him time to mull. Presuming he was able to engineer a happy ending and reunite father and son, did he actually want someone so manifestly powerful and charismatic as an on-form Vergeer in his squad? What if things soured between him and Burkhardt and they both rounded on him? It was a huge gamble.

And, of course, there was the risk of having to ditch his own pride, the seven sins variety, to watch Vergeer sail over his head and end up running Oregon, let alone Portland. Sean frowned. Did Vergeer really know he was a Royal? It hadn't surprised him that van Maarten knew – he hadn't become the head of Benelux Interpol for no reason. Sean couldn't work out whether Vergeer knew about his status, or whether he was simply parking his son at the station least likely to be home to a 'mole'.

While TELNOR churned, Sean took a moment to wade through Vergeer's personnel file. The significant roles: 2001-04, Sergeant-at-arms, public protection unit. Riot and hostage rescue, then. 04-07: Detective, Special Victims. 07-12: Lieutenant then Captain, Human Trafficking Directorate, Interpol. 2012... Lieutenant, Vice, Gresham. Nick's name suddenly leapt out at him from the earlier Gresham records, and he allowed himself the tiniest of relieved smiles. Perhaps Theo had been sent here because Vergeer trusted his one-time rookie. No more, no less. But whatever the Lieutenant's motives, van Maarten was right about one thing – the guy's career path showed him as a true Patriarch: protection of the vulnerable in a series of perilous posts. And if Nick's fairly rigid moral stance on the capture and arrest of wesen suspects owned anything to Jan's influence, they'd make one hell of a tag-team.

Sean scratched his head and wondered how on earth he'd convince or coerce into letting Vergeer transfer. But he was probably getting ahead of himself a little. He had to find the guy first – ideally still in one piece.

A chorus of groaning and protest from the main squad room brought him to his feet. He wandered to his office door and saw Theo sitting up at Nick's desk, surrounded by the five uniformed guys recalled to the station for his protection. He was wearing one of their hats and the size contrast between the rim and his head size was little short of comical. He looked like a little flat-topped mushroom. From the way Theo was jealously guarding the five cards in his hand and the pile of matchsticks at his elbow, Sean surmised that they were playing... poker. He blinked. The kid had formed a pride in _his_ squad room and he was only three. And he was supposed to be asleep. And where was Wu? A quick march to Dr Hodgkin's room showed Wu slumped on the chair next to the couch, the blanket dumped on him, snoring quietly. Renard took a deep breath and stomped back to Theo.

"You're up."

"I'm not sleepy, thank you." Theo gathered the cards and handed them to Officer White, who went pale green as he felt his Captain's keen glare upon him. "Shuffle, please."

"Theo," Sean tried again, "It's one in the morning."

"That's ok. I don't have a nursery to get up for, so I can probably sleep in." Huge green eyes turned up to his. "What's your name?"

"Captain Renard."

"I bet your mummy doesn't call you that."

The gall! The gall of the child! Sean almost spluttered but fought to keep icy composure as the guys around the table watched this unprecedented stand-off in absolute awe (and probably a degree of terror for the safety of their jobs). "My mother," Sean said sternly, "called me Sean."

"Can I stay up please, Sean?"

Sean groaned inwardly. Christ. The kid really _was _his father's son. An iron fist of relentlessness, wrapped up in a silk glove of charm and impeccable manners. He should tell Theo that he was going straight to bed, do not pass go, do not pick up $200, and that he would get up when woken in the morning. But then, Lord only knew what the morning would bring. He huffed an exaggerated sigh.

"Oh... alright then."

"Thanks Sean!"

"Yes, that's my name, no need to wear it out," he called back over his shoulder, and stalked back to his office, wondering how damage Theo had done to his 'terrifying Captain' image in less than two and a half minutes.

TELNOR had a match: the alert box was flashing from his laptop, reflecting against the matte leather of his seat. He squeezed round his desk and checked the screen. His blood ran cold. One of _his_ officers: popular; tough; clearly discreet. They'd worked for him four years, never once revealing themselves as Klaustreich.

His office phone rang, nearly shocking him out of his seat. He snatched it up. Griffin.

"Sir, is despatch still backed up? I've called in a double 10-2 and _nothing _is arriving! I also called med-evac, but you know how they work – they won't land till they've got visible cover on the ground, and hell it is _insane_ out there!"

"Hank – calm. Who are the officers?"

"Burkhardt and Vergeer."

Found him. Sean wrestled in his desk drawer for his Beretta and spare holster. "Who needs the med-evac?"

"Possibly both of them. They're holed up in the security guy's office at Tennant's Bar – under siege."

Sean fumbled his holster on, locked in the Beretta and shrugged on his jacket, clamping the phone between his chin and his collar bone. "I'm on my way. Where are you? Are you safe? More to the point, are you hurt?"

"Uh... I got smacked around a little, but nothing too savage. I'm kind of hiding in my car right now, trying to stay local. I'm parked a couple of blocks down from the main action. Look, there's a bunch of guys hanging around the alley near the security guy's office. I'm a bit worried that—"

"Ok, look – whatever you see, stay where you are. I am completely serious about that. Do not get out of the car until I get there. Do you understand?"

"What? What if they get attacked?"

"Do you understand?"

"Yeah. Yeah, ok." Hank didn't sound convincing. Sean didn't expect him to.

"Soon, Griffin."

Sean swept out of the station while Theo and co had their backs turned. He had a direct line to SWAT, should he need it, but until then, he had some mangy mutts to bring to heel. One in particular.

**X x X**

"Famous Lowen? Oh come _on_! Something harder. I'm spoiled for choice here. David Beckham. Beyoncé. Richard Branson!"

Denny's mild tone didn't escape Monroe: he'd been trying to keep Jan awake for the last ten minutes and had changed his strategy from sarcasm to the occasional shoulder squeeze to make sure Jan was still responding. He was fading. Still joining in, but definitely fading. Nick, lying down to his right, looked desperately concerned.

"Ok..." God his voice was going quiet. "Famous... Schlaubaasten."

"Bollocks, that's a toughie."

"G-Gotcha."

Monroe chuckled. On balance, 'English' swearing just seemed more fun. He certainly planned to tell the next dawn religious caller to stick their head where the sun didn't bloody shine.

"Um... I can only think of one. Boris Johnson"

He, Jan and Nick all pulled the same face. "Who?"

"Hello? There's a world outside the states, you know! Boris Johnson! Current Mayor of London. Oafish, yet eloquent. You do an image search on the guy and tell me he's not a Siegbarste-human hybrid."

"We said _famous_," Monroe protested, but didn't follow it through. With a cross between a yelp and a sigh, Jan had slipped in Denny's grip, totally wiping the smile off his face.

"All right, mate. Let's... get you down for a bit."

"Is he out?" Nick murmured.

"Yeah." Denny reluctantly relinquished Jan to the floor, did the pulse and breathing checks, and wedged a bag behind him so he was facing right, towards Nick, and unlikely to roll back on any of the worse injuries. "Think he's reaching the end of his physical rope, to be honest. Nick, are you up to taking over the vital checks for a little while? Just need to stretch my legs."

Denny got up and stretched almightily, but seemed to make a significant point of looking for something in the cupboard for a bit.

Monroe cleared his throat. "You alright?"

"Yeah. No. Finding it a little bit distressing, to be honest. Don't really like the idea of him... getting a lot worse on my floor." He looked a bit misty. "I'll be alright in a minute. Just need to busy myself." Denny did so by listening for activity at the vent, the hole by the extractor fan, and under his office door. "All quiet on the western front."

"Too quiet," Nick muttered. "I don't like it."

"Well, me neither, to be frank, but I'm not quite sure what we can do but wait it out. You're in no fit state for battle, neither is the alpha, and Jan... well."

Nick met Monroe's eyes quizzically and just in that one moment, Monroe could've cheerfully stuck three years' worth of insults up Denny's blunt, occasionally-clumsy ass, using a huge pole. There was no evading the conversation now, but he had rather hoped for the opportunity to take his own initiative.

"Uh yeah, Nick. About that. I've got to admit, you've only ever seen a half-woge. In fact, that's my normal state of affairs. But, um..."

"He's a psychopathic Bavarian Alpha Blutbad."

"Thanks, Denny!"

"What? Look, this is a small room – there's no room for elephants. Just spit it out. You've not done anything wrong, have you?"

"You've not read the pack rules, have you?" Monroe protested. "Particularly number eleven? The one that says 'thou shalt not rail-road your buddies into awkwardly-timed confessions'?"

Denny scratched his head. "Pack rules? Is that a wolfish thing?"

"Yeah. No. It's a bit broader than that. They're the rules of social engagement between guys."

"Oh, right. Well that's why I've not heard of them, then. I don't do social engagement. Remember?"

"Monroe," Nick chipped in quietly, "You're apparently a psychopathic... what? Do you get bigger when you... fully woge?"

"Yeah." Monroe ran his hand through his hair. Long-term failure to disclose suddenly made him feel guilty and idiotic in equal measure. "I wolf-out totally. No visible skin. No control. No sense of...proportional response—"

"Oh I wouldn't say that. You did well earlier. You were just protecting your mate, weren't you?"

"He's not my _mate!_ I have a gorgeous girlfriend—"

"Fine, not mate! Pal, wingman, buddy – whatever you want to call him! You can be a right touchy sod, I tell you."

"Sorry... it's just... all the assumptions... never mind." Monroe cleared his throat, distracted by Nick sniggering at him. "LIKE I WAS SAYING, I have this no-control side, which I do my best to control. Hence the OCD-like routine, the yoga, the veganism..."

"Monroe, just keep going to yoga. Hell, send me a copy of your timetable and I'll never bug you during a session again."

"That's it? No howls of recrimination? No 'I showed you my trailer, but never got to see your snout?'"

Nick gave a lopsided grin. "I've never been desperate to see your snout. There might be a few issues if you hadn't saved my sorry butt on more than a handful of occasions, but... as things stand.. life's too short, Monroe. Anyway, I do know what it's like trying to drop universe-changing facts into conversation." Nick leant over to do the pulse and breathing check, apparently shutting the topic down.

"Thanks," Monroe said helplessly. God, the number of pointless, sleepless nights he'd lost, when he could've admitted his violent heritage to his friend quite some time ago. 'Thanks' seemed like a poor and radical understatement, but hopefully they'd all get out in one piece so he could add to it. Hopefully they'd all get out, _soon_, before Rosalee started plotting his hairless demise. He felt the urgent need to start a new conversation.

"How's he doing?" he asked, standing over Nick, who'd rested his hand on the back of Jan's neck to settle him. Jan shifted from time to time, breaking into little fits of fast breathing, settling, then groaning into the carpet.

"Uh... stable. But he's in an impossible amount of pain. Shouldn't we... check the state of the injuries, while he's out?"

Denny scratched his nose. "Probably. But we can't do anything about them anyway, and I'd rather we left well alone – unless he seriously deteriorates. Let's... leave him a little dignity."

"True."

The compassion surprised Monroe, earlier, the affection even more so now. "Denny, have you considered re-joining the EMT service? I mean, you clearly have your 'homicidal rages' under control, and as Jan says, your bedside manner could be a lot worse, trust me."

"I have thought about it. The whole emergency-response thing does strike a chord with me. But there's a bit of a large... gap in my skill set."

"Yeah?" Nick tilted a brow at him. "What?"

"Ill women. Can't do 'em. Give me some poor bugger laid out on the tarmac with a knife sticking out of him, I can probably do something about it. But push a fainted female in my general direction and I get completely discombobulated."

"Discobbob-you-what?"

"Mentally detached and confused." Denny waved a vague hand. "I'm sure a psychologist would bore you about it for hours, but the cliff notes version is that my mum got meningitis when I was a teenager and my dad in HMP Pentonville. She passed out on me one day at the shops and I froze, then freaked in that order. Never really got over it. Happy ending – she's fine. Me, crap at sick women. It's all very well you fellas saying nice things about how I've done this evening, but you just ask Nick how I reacted when your preggers girlfriend fell out the doorway into my arms. I went into a _total _flap."

"My _what_ girlfriend?"

Nick slapped his hands over his face. "Pack rules, Denny!"

"Oh for fuck's sake!. This is why I don't do _people_. You're all so complicated. Is it even worth me pointing out that I'm not a bloody wolf? What is so wrong about mentioning a bloke's lovely pregnant girlfriend?"

"Pregnant?"

"Yeah! You know, bun-in-oven, up the duff, expecting-a-small..."

Monroe felt a wave of hot disbelief crash through him, knocking all accessible emotions out of the way. Pregnant? In the face of the evidence that had been right there in front of him all that time, _nesty, emotional, faint_, there he'd been, like a _useless _bean, wondering why she'd been finding daytime tv so devastatingly upsetting. He calculated backwards... Rosie was only in season three times a year. Her last season should've kicked in while Nick was sick with the flu, and she had been ratty, but... it had only lasted a couple of days. She had to be nearly eight months gone – out of thirteen (if she followed the fuschbau gestation pattern). A heat of joy took over and he felt his eyes warm, his cheeks fuzz, his ears prick... all just contemplating a Fushblad or a Bludbau – or whatever – in just a few months' time.

"Uh... Nick... could you just come on over here and stand in front of me? I'm feeling a bit... endangered. All of a sudden."

Nick crept guiltily into his line of sight. "I found out this evening, Eddie. I'm really sorry. She wanted to tell you herse— WHOA!"

"I'M GOING TO BE A DAD!" Monroe kind of forgot himself, wrapped his arms round Nick, swung him round a bit, then dumped him up and down joyfully a few times. Denny pulled Nick out of his grip and put him promptly back on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he spotted Denny holding Nick's face and checking his pupil reactions. Oops. Well... he'd seemed so coherent... he'd forgotten about the lack of balance... and the potential odoema... and the possibility of clots...

"C'ngratulations," Nick mumbled.

"I can't believe it!"

"Yeah, so we see – PUT ME DOWN, YOU HAIRY MORON! Can't congratulate you enough, etc, but no more bouncing the Grimm, alright? Bounce _me_ again, and you're toast."

Monroe plonked himself in the office chair, grinning impossibly to himself, unable to absorb it all. A cub. A possibility he'd given up long ago – at about the same time that he'd decided that clocks were sexy. A cub!

**X x X**

A cold blue air blew over Jan's savannah. He felt unbelievably hot. A pride member – Nick – in pain, falling off the rock before the quintet was complete. He was trying to hide it and doing well, but the scent flowed off him in blazing waves. The Hyenas came closer. At the first hint of danger, he crawled across his son, snarling, but nothing of significant threat approached. He backed off slowly, got onto his knees, and stared out at the landscape. The sky turned psychedelic and in a maelstrom of merging colours from blue to green; yellow to red. There was something wrong with his own head – the sky should not look that way. Nick was slipping –Jan trapped him still with a hand. It was _his _pride, underformed but strong, keeping him going, and nothing was going to harm it.

**X x X**

Nick glanced left, nervously. "Did Jan just... snarl?"

"He's in a bad way, Nick. No idea whether he's coming or going. And his temp is up a bit now, actually. I'll turn the fan up a little more."

"You _are_ good at this," Nick mumbled. "You really should give 'people' another go. The world is a lot more ... inclusive than the way you remember it. Or maybe the way it is in England."

"Example?"

Nick tried thinking, and it hurt. Jan growled alarmingly, which he tried to ignore. Inclusive... "well, ok – I have a friend, Bud, who's an Eisbiber. He and his wife are trying to adopt a little boy who's half-eis and half-lowen. Matty – the little guy – has been pretty much accepted in the whole community."

Denny whistled. "Whoa, ok."

"And... Sally, Bud's sister in law, is trying to open a wesen-only nursery. All types. Mixed."

"That might be... a little optimistic, but I've got to hand it to them for trying. And thanks for trying to sell 'people' to me, Nick, but there's a reason I'm a doorman. To keep people _out. _I'm having trouble enough trying to come to terms with whether I'm human or Sieg, and I don't need people examining my progress, if I'm honest."

"They wouldn't have long to examine you as an EMT. You might come 'cross a really nice woman. Not fainty. Asking you for a number." God, what was wrong with his head? He was thinking, and talking, like a telegram.

Denny chuckled. "I'm just not good at women all round, Nick."

"Oh. So... you're...?"

"Oh mate, bless you. I do believe your gaydar's dislocated."

"His gaydar's _always _been dislocated!" Monroe piped up from the corner.

Nick rolled his eyes – mistake. "So.. does that make you extra rare?"

"Someone needs his WesenApp upgraded, I think. No – I can string two sentences together, in the right order – that makes me exceptionally rare. What's more typical of Siegbarstes – and which actually makes us 'usually' rare - is our... disinclination to engage in 'congress' with the female of our kind, shall we say."

"Like Pandas?" Nick felt silly as soon as he'd said it, but he was trying to keep things concise. That goddamn top-of-the-head fog was threatening to descend again.

"Um, yeah... like pandas... I suppose. But Siegbestes are bloody awful, Nick. It's enough to put a touch of misogyny into any bloke, I can tell you."

Nick frowned. "What's wrong with them?"

Denny lit a cigarette. "Got a girlfriend?"

"Did."

"Did she ever try to throw you down the stairs before sex?"

Nick burst into laughter immediately, trying to picture Juliette applying that particular technique in her seduction rituals. The laughter shot a jet of pain through his head which broadened and blossomed until he thought he might actually have to roll over and be ill – giggles or no giggles – when suddenly Jan was on top of him, glaring down in concern.

"Uh... that's a little cosy..."

"Not sure he can hear you."

Nick looked into Jan's green eyes and there was very, very little recognition in there. How was he even upright? "Uh Jan... Denny, what's he doing?"

Denny seemed to consider it. "I'm not sure. I think he's asserting his dominance."

Nick grabbed Jan's shoulders. "Jan, I accept your dominance. Now, _get off! _Ow, my legs!_" _Jan had him pinned – his shins over Nicks and the bone-to-bone weight was... surprisingly painful.

Monroe was suddenly up on his feet and over. "You _did _swallow the pills properly, right?"

"You saw me do it!" as Jan's hands came down on his shoulders, he felt really... odd.

Denny shrugged. "The lad's right. Plus, if it were that man-magnet pheromone thing, I'd be over there trying to make room. And to be honest, I don't think he's trying to have it away with you. You'd be in a completely different position if he was after that. Jan's not really very carnal. He's more the nurturing type."

Monroe looked around, sniffing, half-focussing on their conversation. "Yeah, I think he's just concerned. He thinks you're in pain."

Nick felt that their response to his predicament lacked urgency. He was struggling to breathe, and the effort of pushing up against Jan's shoulders had ripped the butterfly strips off the side of his chest, which made Jan's feline alarm even more heightened than ever. "Well, he's right," he wheezed. "I am in pain. I'm in pain... because I'm stuck under.. 240lb of concerned lion! Some help, please?"

Monroe glared at him tartly from the side. "Dude! I'm trying to work out the root cause!. It's pretty dangerous coming between a Koningleeuwen and a wounded pride member! Denny – the plants! He's been breathing in the pollen for the last hour – what are-"

"Nepetia Cataria. What about it?"

Jan grabbed two handfuls of Nick's shirt and ripped it open, showing his chest wound. "GUYS!"

Denny looked round irritably. "Look, just.. try to fight him off gently!"

Jan had completely demolished the remainder of his shirt. "FIGHT HIM OFF _GENTLY?_"

"Nepetia—" He saw Monroe grab his head, start shoving all the plants into Denny's cupboard, put the extractor on reverse, turn the fan round. "Denny – that's catnip! He's a LION!"

"Oh Christ... right, Nick – hang on there..." Denny chucked his cigarettes at Monroe, told him to light up a couple and stomped over to pull Jan back. Nick's relief lasted about two seconds as the distraction made Jan's hand slip, scraping over his bloodied patch, and making him howl. Jan mistook Denny's approach as the cause of his pain, turned and flung him across the room, where Denny landed with a smash and a series of varied oaths. Nick was just running out of air when Denny reappeared, smoking, looking a little cross-eyed. "Look – don't worry. He'll probably pass out in a moment, and we can help get him off, but I think all he wants to do is give it a bit of a clean."

"WHAT? JAN, WAKE UP!" Voice, coordination and power all came barrelling through in the same moment, out of nowhere: Nick grabbed Jan's shoulders again, bench-pressed him up, then alligator rolled, keeping an arm across his waist to soften the landing as much as possible. Jan's eyes flew open and for a moment there was recognition, total fright, bewilderment. His friend looked into his face and appeared to be trying to scrabble back across the carpet, only he couldn't really move. Nick was shocked – did he seriously think he'd hurt him?

"Wat heb ik gedaan – uh.. whaddid I do?"

Nick grabbed his Jan's head lightly and squeezed his own eyes shut. He had absolutely no idea how, or if, he could turn off the whole raging-Grimm-silver eyes thing. He just tried to modulate his voice, instead. "Nothing – don't worry. Easy. You tried to get up and passed out on me. That's all. Go back to sleep."

Jan obeyed promptly, his head instantly going heavy. His pulse was still wild. Nick glared over at the others and found them on the floor on the other side of the table, under two plumes of smoke, trying to occupy the same patch of carpet. He walked round, leant against the kitchenette sink, and glared at them.

"Well, I'm glad it was so good for you two. Thanks for leaping to my aid!"

Denny took a fretful drag on his cigarette. "L-looks like you didn't need that much help! I mean... it all came together pretty nicely, didn't it? The eyes... the super-strength... the voice..."

"Voice was the worst," Monroe gibbered. "Like instant doom—"

"_Total_ doom!"

"Like falling down a deep black pit and knowing that you're going to hit the ground before you wake up." Monroe met his eyes twitchily. "Dude, seriously, that was nearly brown-trousers time."

Nick felt unsympathetic. "If it's not a stupid question, why are you smoking?"

"We're trying to off-set the effects of the catnip! A little goes a _long_ way. A tiny bit here and there is fine, but you're not supposed to get it blown in your face till kingdom come. It's highly hallucinogenic in those quantities."

Nick looked over at Jan in concern. "Is he poisoned?"

"Confused, I would say," Denny muttered. "But it's not like he's eaten any, or inhaled it, so hopefully – minimum damage. Although... I think his body's catching up with him a bit. His ribs didn't really enjoy that."

Jan was on his right side, groaning almightily. He went over and sat behind, trying to keep him still so he didn't thrash around dangerously.

Monroe dragged his hands down his face blearily. Wow, he was shaken. "Still, this teaches a very important lesson."

"Never lick a Grimm?"

"That's an excellent lesson," Nick barked. "Someone write it down."

"It's a flight-fight reaction. If we can harness the adrenaline with the emotions, maybe we can channel it when you need it. Nick – what's up with your arm?"

"Nothing." Nick looked down, to make sure it wasn't nothing. His nerves were more than a little out of whack. His sleeve was bloody and there was no undiscovered savagery underneath it. Urgently, he felt down to where he'd caught Jan when rolling him, and his hand came away soaked. "Fuck!"

Denny was over in seconds, finally pulling Jan's shirt open, and they reared back in shock as a trio at the complete mess the Koningleeuwen was in. Nick struggled over to Denny's bin, dry-heaving. Nothing to throw up. Jan was black on the left side, black with spatters of maroon, like a Rothko painting, from beneath the armpit down to his hip, with blossoms of red-blue across his gut. And many old scars. The blood came from a small wound right in the lower back, slightly to the side of the spine. He hadn't been punched by Gerard, then, but shanked. Nick felt his eyes sting.

"Wh-why didn't he _say _anything?"

Denny clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Don't think he was hiding it, mate. With that many broken ribs to be dealing with, he might not even have known."

Nick twitched, and felt his fists itch. The voice felt like it would come back quite easily if he turned round and looked at Jan again. He fought to keep his normal voice level – he needed the guys to focus.

"Right. He doesn't have any more time. We've got to grab what we have handy, and get the hell out of here. Monroe – you can start by blending those plants. In water. We'll fill Denny's sprayers. Let's see how the Hildegaards enjoy inhaling _that._" He snapped the legs off the office chair, making clubs.

Denny nodded approvingly. "So it's war, then Nick?"

"I say 'goodbye Hildegaards'. What do you reckon?"

Monroe and Denny shared a Grimm look and nodded at him.

Denny rolled his sleeves up. "Right. Let's go slap some cats."

_**Right.. next chapter... the Patriach rises! And just cause we're going back out into the club... maybe for atmosphere, shove Blondie's 'heart of glass' and Guns n' Roses' Sweet Child of Mine onto your various ipods/apple accounts ;)**_


	10. The Patriarch Rises

**Fight fight fight fight! Folks – thanks a million for all the wonderful reviews on 9. I've never written a story this long, and there's still 3 chapters left after this… I really hope that 10 lives up to your expectations and that you enjoy.**

**Got your Abba and Blondie soundtracks ready? Lol **

**xxxxx**

"We've got to talk logistics, fellas. It's not like we can take him with us, is it?" Denny frantically stuffed every soft surface in the room round Jan to try to keep him vaguely protected, but it looked very much like they were looking at a slippery slope, survival-wise.

"I'll stay with him," Monroe said quietly. "You guys get out of here and get reinforcements."

"You sure?" Denny saw the long look of appeal and appraisal pass between Monroe and Nick and eventually Nick stepped away from it, wiping his hand down his face.

"C'mon, Nick, I'm a big bad alpha, remember? And at least I can hold the gun."

"I know it makes sense, Eddie. It just doesn't make it any easier to swallow."

The banging at the door made them all jump and Denny lunged over, shifting in mid-stride to lean heavily against their side of the door. "YOU'RE NOT HAVING HIM!"

"Jan? You in there? Ben je erin?"

The voice nearly made Denny stagger back from the door – almost as startling as Nick's full Grimm coming out. He glanced over at Jan, who was still definitely on the floor, very much unconscious, and in no state to be doing any ventriloquism. Who the hell was that? "Wie bent u?"

"Stefan!"

Denny frowned. Was that supposed to mean something? "Wie?"

"Zijn broer!"

His brother? Any Dutch arse – even one that sounded exactly like Jan – could claim that. "Hoe weten we dat?"

There was a pause. "Shall we switch to English?" 'Stefan' yelled back. "You're doing a great job, but still... perhaps put a little more u in your a."

Denny caught Nick's eye, or rather, caught Nick rolling his eyes. Nick waved permissively at the door.

"Family habits," Nick muttered. "He sounds for real."

Denny opened the door and a slightly, only slightly smaller Jan shot past him and joined his brother on the floor, laying several weapons down to free his hands and grab his head. Jan stopped panting and went still.

"Jan – we're five! C'mon. Wake up." Stefan looked back desperately. "Shit – I didn't think he had this far to come back from. What the fuck did they do to him? He looks like he's been run over!"

Nick came alongside Denny and took over interrogation duties, for which Denny was profoundly grateful. He couldn't be near Jan looking like – that. He'd shifted back to human, but migraine or not, he might be better off as Siegbarste. He seemed to feel things less, in his wesen form.

"I thought he was staying with you."

"He is, but if you know anything about Jan, you know he's good at keeping stuff to himself. C'mon buddy… open your eyes!"

What's the significance of the five?" Nick asked.

"You need five to make up a pride. At least. As soon as he's with it, I'll go get more help." Stefan got an arm under Jan's back and hoisted him up a little. "Can you help me get him up?"

Denny boggled. "Are you out of your _mind_? Look at him! What the hell are you doing?"

"Letting him know I'm here. Scaling Pride Rock. It's a Pride King... thing. I don't expect you to understand right now – that's one for later." Lighter green eyes than Jan's met his with the same expression of appeal as his older brother's, albeit in a much younger face. A cocky face. Denny preferred the mature version. Stefan sighed. "Come on, I know this is hard to accept, but I know what I'm doing. Help me get him up. I'm strong, but he's not exactly... compact."

He bent down with a snarl. "He's not bloody Lazarus, alright? If this hurts more than it helps, I'll pull your arms and legs off myself. Got that?"

"Stefan," Jan warned, "If you even _think_ of jerking me up right now…"

Denny was so shocked he nearly dropped him. Jan's eyes were still shut, his face the shade of the north side of St Paul's Cathedral and still raining sweat, but his voice… totally coherent and composed. Very much on the correct side of the survival slope. He caught his breath, then blurted: "You're awake!"

"Just about."

"Well... bugger me sideways."

Jan gave him the tiniest flicker of a smile through obvious faintness. "That's a bit... impatient, Denny. I'd rather stay still, for a bit..."

Denny was too busy grinning with relief to reply, but Nick had resumed charge anyway. "We're sticking with plan A – Monroe and Jan remaining here. We'll clear a path out there, and send help back to you as soon as it comes. Stefan – can you share any of your arsenal?"

Stefan handed Nick a Colt and Denny felt a little irritated on Nick's behalf as Jan-the-Younger looked him appraisingly up and down, making no secret of his concern at someone as unintimidating-looking as Nick leading the charge. Then he met Nick's flat gaze and leapt back about four feet. "You're a Gri―"

"Later!" Nick barked, and headed for the door. Denny saw Stefan meet his brother's eyes dubiously, but Jan nodded sternly at him. _Trust me, trust him_, the glare clearly said.

Slightly more meekly, Stefan added: "If it helps, the cats out there are strung out on J. So they're violent, but they're also completely mentally scattered and have no sense of strategy – it seems that they're missing their leader."

"Thanks," Nick muttered, and threw the wad of cotton from his ear into the bin. Denny approved – no point in presenting them with an obvious target to hit. They both took one last look over at Jan, Denny tossing Monroe the keys, just in case they needed to seal the route behind them, and unbolted the door.

**X x X**

The sound of Hank's passenger window smashing made him clear his seat with shock: the nutcases worked quickly – the bat cracked through the window, and an arm struggled for the car door handle on the inside. Not too bright – a locked car with an electric command system. It wasn't going to open however hard the probing hand pulled. Hank smacked the butt of his gun over the invading knuckles and watched with surprised satisfaction as the hand reared out of the car, its owner yowling. The yowl cut off real sudden, and Hank heard a thud. Then saw a very familiar silhouette. He opened the back door, manually, and Renard climbed in.

"Good timing Sir, thanks."

"Finally, we do actually have help coming. Someone deliberately compromised connections between despatch and the PDs this evening. How are you doing?"

Hank shrugged. Actually, not so good. He was groggy and thought he might actually have broken his right forearm. "Good enough to help," he fibbed.

"Fine, you're staying here. Griffin – don't give me that look. STAY. HERE. There is only one exception to this rule."

Hank raised a brow. "What?"

"If you see Officer Yvonne Sands, take her down. With a kill shot if you absolutely have to."

Hank stared. "Sands? What?"

Renard met his eyes seriously. "I know you liked her a lot at one time, and it's hard to imagine, but she was the one who compromised the Southlands stakeout. If you have difficulty in getting your head around that, just keep thinking to yourself how long it'll be before any of your old buddies in narc will be well enough to drink with you again. Alright?"

Hank nodded silently, wondering whether Yvonne was also secretly one of those cat-things. Or whether she was just a dirty cop. Or both. He _had_ liked Yvonne Sands at one point…He shuddered as Renard got out of the car and crept towards the insanity outside Tennant's Bar. Frankly, both options made him feel a little dirty. Neither one more than the other.

He realised that this was a pretty critical improvement in his state of mind about all things wesen: that it didn't bother him more that he had once kissed a treacherous, insane cat during the Christmas party. They were all convincing humans. And it was the human side he'd kissed. What the hey.

Still, just to be on the safe side, he re-checked the magazine cartridge in his gun. He couldn't have a misfire at the critical moment.

**X x X**

He could only hear it through one ear, but it seemed insanely surreal to be smacking heads and firing shots off to Blondie's 'Heart of Glass' – a club tune guaranteed to have him dancing (badly) in the kitchen as a kid. He worked as a tag team with Denny, half fighting, half startling them towards the Siegbarste, while Denny despatched them with punches and cracks round the head with the table legs.

Much like the nightmarish quality of his conscious, coordinated mind, Blondie's voice had gone all floaty and echoey at the chorus, making him feel queasy and confused. _In between, what I find is pleasing and I'm feeling fine…_

He felt far from pleased or fine, as it happened, but his peripheral vision worked well: a Klaus snuck up on his right side and got an abruptly-placed boot under his chin from Nick, thumping him into a boneless heap at the bottom of the sprawling stairs leading from the club doors to the upper balconies. Nearly there… He covered Denny to get the doors open while he fended off the six Klaustreichen trying to back them up against the wall. He fired at one Klaus who got close enough to swipe another hole in the side of his shirt – not that Jan had left them much material to work with – dropped him, and pistol-whipped the two on either side in a figure of eight, crumpling the pair of them before they'd worked out that their buddy in the middle had been shot. The remaining three fled towards one of the rear fire doors.

He heard a tremendous roar in the distance, just audible over the club music now that Denny had the doors open. He looked groggily over to the office door. Still shut – good. And the sound had definitely come from outside. He felt a tiny something in the back of his head go 'snick', felt his strength going with it, his vision, temporarily, and suddenly felt himself being held up by Denny at the open doorway.

"C'mon, Nick – a bit of weight on your legs, mate? Get smacked again?"

He couldn't answer. It wasn't just vowels on strike – more any kind of link at all between his brain and his mouth, or even brain and legs. His mouth was completely zapped of all moisture.

"Shit, alright – going to hide you a bit more, yeah? Hang in there and keep your gun pointed up ah – sirens! Can you hear them? Hang in there for the sirens, Nick. Agh! Bollocks – got to get back to work!"

Nick was left where Denny had put him – gently deposited in the black shadows near the club wall -and was relieved, at least, to see the flash of a dozen or so white shirts with black trousers – all Lowen – steam into the club courtyard, led by Stefan, as back-up for Denny - trapping the last floundering Klaustreich between them. He wasn't completely safe where he was – three of them saw his foot sticking out of the shadow and he suffered the brief winding of being stamped until the Lowen pulled them off and slammed them on the floor. It hurt – but not anywhere near as much as it should've done. Then the squad cars pulled in, uniforms poured out, and he blearily recognised Officer Sands rushing over to help him, though she'd clearly taken a boot or something in the head herself. He felt a weird, numb tension reign as his senses seemed to run out into the courtyard. She pulled him firmly and gently back into the blackest corner.

**X x X**

Monroe startled as a smash in the corner of the window sent a tear running across the width of the glass. They'd finally figured out that they needed something small and sharp to make an impact, and that throwing each other at it wouldn't make much difference. He looked over to Jan, wondering what the hell they were going to do, but Jan had rolled unsteadily onto hands and feet and swayed over to the gun left for them on Denny's table.

"That'll take them a moment," Jan muttered, pulled his shirt off and folded it. "Just reinforcing things a bit… ah-AH..."

Monroe watched, unable to stop himself wincing as Jan strapped the bottom of his ribs, and was slightly embarrassed to be caught in the giant's mild gaze as he looked down at him through a sweaty fringe.

"I think Denny ruined it quite comprehensively, anyway."

Monroe shrugged. "Believe me, your shirts would be no safer with Nick."

"On the other side of the window, please Monroe. I'm glad to hear that. Finally, a bit of purposeful disrobing. He used to stop to politely unbutton, you know? Odd boy."

It amused Monroe in an abstract way to hear Nick described as an odd boy – the benefits of the cheek of age, he supposed. But the amusement was nowhere enough to calm the anxiety that was grating at him, and he brandished his plant-spray twitchily, feeling as much good as a chocolate teapot with his current inability to shift – to anything. Jan was _enormous. _ No two ways about it – not just tall and lanky – actually a very well-built guy, built on a completely different scale to everyone else. The gun he held so easily looked like a silly toy in his hand.

Jan unnervingly met his eyes again. "You alright?"

"Won't you get cold?"

"Monroe…I think… that's probably the strangest thing anyone's ever asked me. Let's not worry about the cold, eh?"

The total lack of mocking in Jan's voice made him feel ten times dumber than if he'd torn two strips off him for being a dumbass. A huge roar ripped through the air, audible even through the slightly cracked window. It was clearly coming from a long way off, but the power in it… almost as thunderous as Jan's own, earlier, which had set off two car alarms. Monroe stared at Jan.

"That was a call to arms. Clearly Stefan seems to think he knows where to find some supportive Lowen."

Monroe's eyes widened. "The wedding party! Won't they be miles away, by now?"

Jan smiled slightly. "Stefan is a Royal Marine, Monroe. I'm sure he did reconnaissance before coming anywhere near the building. Alright, they're making progress out there. If you could do me a favour – try to keep them on my right side? I can only just feel my fingers in my left. Ok? We'll take care of these jokers, then hope there's a clear path past the door."

Monroe nodded, pressed himself back against the wall, and the glass blew inwards, ironically as 'Heart of Glass' from outside segued into 'Dancing Queen'.

. . . .

Jan despatched with the first face leaning in through the shattered window by popping his right elbow backwards against the nose, sending the Klaustreich sidewalk-bound with a crunch. Another climbed over the top of his friend and leapt through the window to face him – no honour among assholes – and got the upper side of his right-back-hander, sending him airborne backwards across the room and making a dent in Denny's cupboard door. Unconsciousness reduced the Klaustreich to human – not that Jan needed any help identifying. He'd seen those striped claws up close more than a couple of times: Annalise's littlest brother, recovered from Monroe's earlier strike, but down again. One of the ears was bleeding – which seemed almost like just recompense for Nick. _Feel the beat on the tambourine, ooooo yeahhhh, _Abba bleated bizarrely, in the background.

A Klaus dived for Monroe while Jan had his hands full again (mostly full of neck), so he was pleased to see his new friend despatch the alley cat with a face-full of liquid nip and a neat punch. The beast went down knuckling its eyes, half-choking and screeching, filling Monroe with confidence.

"Right! Anyone else for some of my spray?"

"Door," Jan murmured, and made his way over, allowing Monroe to hold a competent rear guard with his two watering canisters. The cats outside the window – just as strung out as Stefan had said – hesitated about following any time soon. He had the four bolts unlocked, and had to pause for a dizzy breath, when a black door to the side of Denny's office finally splintered open and two refugees escaped before Jan managed to slam it shut again – hitting heads hard on the inside. The blonde Klaus struggled away on her hands and knees. He let her go. Gerard, bloodied but upright, still had his shank and plunged it towards him.

If he hadn't been hurting so badly, he could've deflected at the first flicker of movement and made Gerard stab himself, but the next best thing occurred: he at least caught the thin arm when the tip of the shank was less than a half-inch from his left side. Glaring into the centre of the slit-eyes in the hateful face, he grabbed Gerard's neck in his right hand and with his weaker left, squeezed the forearm until pain and panic made the little shit's mouth drop open and the eyes dilate into lemons. A plaid arm shot past him and sprayed nip straight in Gerard's mouth, producing multiple, satisfying choking and suffering sounds.

"Thank you kindly, Monroe." Jan regarded his spluttering tormentor dispassionately, raised him up by the neck and then dropped Gerard down onto his kneecap, crunching the cat's stones and getting him 'right in the feels', as Denny would probably say. "That was for the beatings," he explained calmly, then eyed the door of the men's toilet.

A particularly nasty memory came back to him as he hoisted the clam-folded Klaustreich by the back of his jacket and belt of his camos into the nearest cubicle, which was satisfactorily disgusting. He plugged the toilet bowl with Gerard's head and shoulders and flushed. Juvenile but fulfilling – and it wouldn't last the whole fucking night, like being tied while out cold to a bench in the yard, tipped backwards and made to inhale heavy rainstorm until he choked and passed out. Three times.

"_That_ was for the waterboarding."

Finally, he picked up Gerard and threw him into the gulley by the urinals. He landed with enough of a crack to reassure Jan that he could get on with other priorities, for now. "I may be back to discuss 'the station stairs'."

The effort made him a little green, but anger helped him bounce on his toes, for now. He was a little more confident of getting outside and home to Theo in one piece, which ramped up his pain threshold another twenty percent or so. Monroe stepped up beside him and twirled his canisters. Jan almost smiled. For a guy temporarily limited to human… he was pretty deadly. Then a cold wave swept over him – one of his pride, down and helpless. Jan accepted Monroe's arm round his hips, leant heavily and they stumbled past the clutter of passed-out and wounded bodies on the floor to the front of the club as quickly as they could manage.

**X x X**

Denny kept glancing over to see if Nick was doing ok, but he seemed to have been hauled off somewhere quieter. Probably a good thing: the little bastards with their makeshifts were absolutely brutal, even with a bunch of bloody Lowen helping out. But at least now the braver of the beat cops were struggling their way into the melee, taking down Klaus with force that could almost be called Police Brutality, completely unaware of what exactly they were fighting. But he didn't like not being able to see Nick: he had a horrible feeling that it wasn't a new blow that had taken the Grimm down, but an older one, making its level of damage suddenly clear. Panic and guilt took over, pushing him back into the remaining fight. Stefan was down – he thundered over to cover him.

**X x X**

Nick's eyes adjusted to the gloom, and he tried to thank her for standing over him for those few moments while the fight wound down. Hank staggered into view in the distance, waving the med-evac down onto the cordoned area of Freelands blocked off from the traffic. He didn't look too good. Sands was now bent in front of him, feeling through his hair, gently.

"Did you take a smack?"

He couldn't answer, so he nodded, which jerked harsh stars behind his eyes.

"I'm sure Jan would prefer to be doing this."

Huh? Nick stared at her silhouette. Even in the gloom, her face looked pinched. What the fuck was she talking about?

"He always had a thing for you. More than a 'thing'. Annalise tried so hard with him. Did you know that?" Her fingers became claws.

Nick felt panic set in. Klaustreich – friends with Annalise, no less, and despite growing terror, even without the blackness, he was in no state to do the eyes, or the voice, and certainly not the arms.

"Do you know how hard it was for her? She tried so hard. For those first two years. She did everything for him, tried to be the perfect wife, but you can't make it work with someone who's already in love with someone else. She needed him to love her, be his rescuer, but he _destroyed_ her – because of you!"

And she sure got her own back, Nick thought, thinking of the abuse that followed, and he wasn't sure whether that sudden violent jerk of the leg was down to him, or whether it was panicked reflex, but he caught her in the chest hard enough to smack her backwards out of the shadow and scramble for her gun for a moment before standing and aiming at him again. Behind her, Jan appeared, his arm straight, face colourless and deadly under the black hair, and fired.

She screeched, turned, and her spin-fire caught Jan high up in the chest, flicking him over backwards. Nick caught his breath as his friend dropped, but the giant was caught in a pincer movement between Denny and Monroe before he hit the courtyard. Then her gun was pointed unerringly, once again, straight towards his face. He heard her pull the hammer back, let his lids drop shut, then heard a shot that didn't reach him. When he opened, confused, she was side-down on the ground and Renard emerged out of the blackness, standing over her bleakly.

Nick let go the breath he'd been holding.

Denny was talking urgently into Jan's face, gripping one hand, which was clearly being gripped back – hard – while Monroe was dutifully pressing hard against the bleeding collar bone with his ripped-off and folded-up shirt. Nick thought, vaguely, that they'd all need a new wardrobe after this Boys' night out. Jan stopped howling and was reduced to groaning against Denny's chest, but the med-evac paramedics were already swooping over with the gurney.

Good – so it wasn't all for nothing – Jan was in good hands, and the Captain was walking towards him, saying his name quietly in the darkness, followed at the double by Hank.

He tried to say "I'm here", but it didn't work. Nick was vaguely aware of a sharp, grating sensation against the bruised, kicked side of his face as violent tremors kicked in and then he slipped down the side of the wall.


	11. It's such a perfect day

_**We're into the Home Stretch, now: two more chapters to come…. I hope you enjoy this one. It is long, compared to others, but I've broken it down into shorter scenes. **_

_**Thanks all for the wonderful reviews (faves and follows!), and for seeing the story out this long. I didn't initially think it was going to get this involved! I wrote quite a bit of this listening to Lou Reed's 'Perfect Day' on repeat… hence the title!**_

**X x X**

**Sunday: 04:35**

Monroe felt lips brush against his and stirred at the tickle of heavy hair catching in his beard. He prised his eyes open to see the most wonderful thing in the world: Rosalee, without a hint of a waxing threat in her expression. "Hey!"

"Hank called me," Rosie said, bumping him sideways up the bed and making herself at home. "Told me you'd all got caught up in some kind of siege… thing. How are you?"

"Very much better for seeing you," Monroe admitted, scooping his arm round her as she cuddled into him. He saw her concerned glance over to the wires hanging out of his arm. "That's just saline, now, and a little dose of some kind of unpronounceable painkiller. I got a boot in the kidneys―"

"Oh, Monroe!"

"But no toxic shock, thanks to that one over there…" He indicated Denny's groggy form in the corridor: while he still had the black trousers on, he'd dispensed with the ruined white shirt and looked a good deal more casual in the pale grey tee that had been under the tux. Both his forearms were heavily bandaged and he sat on a gurney with his back to the wall, lost in a world of his own. "They're letting us both go in the morning."

"Remind me to thank him." She peered. "Isn't that… the club doorman?"

"Denny," Monroe mumbled. "A very decent guy, as it turns out." He laid a light hand on her waist and beamed quietly to himself, thinking of what was growing inside. Still, let her bring it up first. "More to the point… how are you?"

"Ok, who blabbed?"

Monroe gaped, making her chuckle. "No, seriously! How did you know that I knew?"

"You kind of have that… dressing-for-Halloween expression on your face. But I'm guessing you're happy about it?" Her eyes were full of appeal that by way of simple answer, Monroe took her face and kissed her silly. She disentangled herself eventually, cross-eyed. "That's a yes, then."

"How long have you known?"

"I've sort of suspected for about a week. Then I did a test, and it was inconclusive. Then I called Dr Maier. I'm sorry, I wanted _you_ to be the first to know, but I also needed to know what I'd be telling you. I got a scan done this morning."

"Really? Got a picture?"

It was out of her hands and into his before she could say anything. The scan picked up a fuzzy little thing with a fist raised pugnaciously as if it were threatening its first paparazzo. Then he saw the anticipated due date in a black-on-white block in the corner. 31st December. "A New Year's Eve cub? Wow! Remind me to tone down the party. Just in case you're actually on time for once." Then he gawped. "Uh... Rosie… that's like… eight weeks away? I was kind of thinking… March!"

She smiled sheepishly at him. "It seems that _you_ have the dominant gene. I'm following the Blutbad gestation cycle – not the Fuschbau. It's a Blutbau."

Monroe gulped. "Lie on your back a moment?"

"Uh… ok…"

"Bump check." Monroe landed a quick kiss through the cardi and then pulled it up. Actually, bump was quite a bit more pronounced than he'd thought. Rosie had been moaning about putting on weight for weeks _I'm so dumb! _But with all the sickness, any over-eat pudge had disappeared, leaving the bump perfectly visible under a less cavernous top. But still, really tiny. As Alphas always were… when they started out. Time to tell her. He was buoyed by Nick's earlier totally relaxed attitude. He kind of hoped that Nick would remember the conversation when he woke up so he didn't have to go through the whole confessional thing again.

"Uh… Rosie… did I ever mention that I'm … um… a _Bavarian_… Blutbad?"

"An alpha, I know."

He sighed. "There's just no springing anything on you, is there?"

"It's part of your sex appeal, actually. I saw you shift fully once while you were changing a car tyre. Made me feel all tingly inside."

"Um… good." Monroe frowned. That was too easy.

But an Alpha Blutbau? Strong, small_ and _sneaky? Oh boy. _That_ wasn't going to be too easy.

"Nick ok?" she asked suddenly, and he felt apprehensive.

"Uh… pretty fragile. They wheeled him past earlier, for a scan. He hadn't come round yet."

Rosie groaned and shook her head. "Poor guy. I'll get some liquid anti-pheromone from Serena in the morning – we'll stick it straight in his saline bag. The last thing he needs is to be fighting off unwanted attention from the nursing staff while he's under-par. When was his last dose?"

"Two pills at about midnight. Should keep him going for a bit." They lay quietly for a little while, Monroe getting his head around the fact that his impending fatherhood was even more impending than suspected, and made a mental note to have a chat with Jan – when he was stronger -about advice on raising a mini gemischtwesen. He gave Rosie a little squeeze, but she'd dropped off next to him. Denny, by contrast, had been rudely snapped from a doze by the joyless Hasslichin nurse that usually only lived at the front desk – though with all these scraped and dented Lowen around, she'd probably been forced to get up and actually do some work. Denny butted his forehead against the gurney in frustration and followed the thick-set trolless down the corridor with very bad grace.

"I've told you already, I've got dense bones!" Denny barked, as he trailed into the distance. "Why can't you just plaster the damn thing if you're so worried, or let me go…?"

Monroe suddenly remembered that Rosie wanted to thank Denny: that could wait. She looked exhausted. And having gotten to know Denny just a little, he rather suspected that he wasn't going anywhere anyway, at least not until Jan had woken up.

**X x X**

**Sunday 08:30**

"Oh Lord, Dr Daly? I think he's coming round…" A light, southern female voice: surprised, and more than a little harassed.

"Already?" Male, muttery. "You under-dosed again, didn't you?"

"No. I was late to theatre in the first place because I was cross-checking my calculations with the Scandinavian Institute for Medicine. I am reliably informed that giants are hard to get right."

"If he wakes in undue comfort, you're on a disciplinary. Just so you know."

Jan managed to get his eyes open, somehow. His view of the room was obscured by an oxygen mask – not that it was a particularly exciting room. Lots of machines, several attached to him, if the proximity of the 'ping' was anything to go by, lots of stainless steel. And, by the sounds of it, a bit of a shit in charge of the operating theatre. He wasn't in any great deal of discomfort, but he felt somewhat compressed: he looked down to find himself wrapped and strapped from armpit to hip, and over his left shoulder. It was like wearing a padded, viciously tight teeshirt with one cap-sleeve missing.

The female face bent over him, deeply flushed. "I'm sorry. We prefer it when people wake up in a regular room. More comfortable. How are you feeling?"

Jan tried making himself heard through the hiss of oxygen, for the benefit of the asshole humiliating her. "Tell him… that he can forget his disciplinary." His body was ok, but his mouth felt like the bottom of a parrot's cage. "May I have some water?"

She pulled a face. "I'm so sorry – not for another hour."

Jan groaned.

'Dr Daly' was over in a flash. "You in pain?"

"Dehydrated."

"That's what the saline's for. You've just come out of extensive reconstructive surgery. Feeling or being sick is not an option for you right now." The guy actually sounded disappointed that he _wasn't _in pain. "Ok, I guess you're good to go."

The anaesthetist raised the back of the trolley from 30 degrees up to 45, transferred the IV hook to the side barrier and pushed him out into the corridor. "Let's get you back to your room."

As he'd predicted, his room was on the eighth floor 'cop's corridor', and he noted 'Det. N Burkhardt' already scrawled up on the white board in one of the rooms. The bed beneath it was empty, for the time being. Nick was probably in surgery having his ear fixed. They went another just few yards further down and banked sharp left: he was almost diagonally opposite Nick's room. Jan saw his own door sign and whiteboard before being reversed up against the wall: it read 'Det. Anton Janssen'. Danish.

He cleared his throat. "I seem to be in the wrong…"

"Oh, it's the right room. Your Captain's request. You're under protective watch. It made things interesting trying to find you, though." The little anaesthetist zipped round the room, closing all the blinds, including the one for the window on the door. Then she removed his mask and raised a cup to his lips. He gulped in surprised relief.

"Small sips. _Small_, I said! Jeez! You try to do a guy a favour…"

He swallowed gratefully. "Sorry. Carried away."

"Well, please don't. I'm on thin ice round here. If you rupture something because of me…"

"I'm fine."

"Ok – you know what one of these is?" She handed him a self-medication box and button. Jan nodded. "Good. Well, I shouldn't say 'good', really – this kind of equipment should be a stranger to most people, ideally. Try to get a little rest and use this stuff sparingly. You may need a pop when the post-op anaesthesia wears off. I'll be back to check on you in a little while." She stopped at the door and smiled slightly at him. "Thanks for sticking up for me, by the way."

She drew all his blinds, and closed the door behind her as she left. Jan's only view out of his room was the small window in the door that revealed the very, very bored presence of an undercover watch sitting on the benches on the other side of the corridor, reading a magazine. For a few moments, he thought the idea of trying to get some rest was ridiculous, with all the events from the previous night whirling round his head, and wondering when he'd get to see Theo, but it turned out that Dr Daly had been completely unjust about giving the poor girl a tongue-lashing over his dose. There was still enough of the heavy stuff in his system to help him drift off for a bit.

**Sunday 12:00**

He woke because someone seemed to have set half of him on fire. Only half, considerately: he thumbed the morphine button urgently and gritted his teeth through several minutes of post-operative, eye-watering pain before the edge came off the burning sensation and he was able to relax a little again. He was aware of a weight tilting the left side of the bed and prised his eyes open to see Denny's feet stuck up on his mattress. Denny was sprawled in the seat by the bed, his head back, his mussed bronze hair catching the room's spotlight and creating a halo. Quite appropriate, really. He looked completely wiped out, pale under the significant dark-blonde stubble he'd cultivated overnight, with one forearm plastered and the other stitched in several places. Damn. Jan let him sleep.

Or at least, he intended to let him sleep. Denny twitched himself awake, rubbed his eyes. "Wasn't expecting to see you up for a while, given the butcher's bill."

Jan frowned. "Huh?"

"Sorry, I was nosy. Read your obs notes. Five ribs reinforced? Extended internal bleeding? Jesus, Jan. You couldn't just stay lying down in my office like a good boy, could you? Anyway, you're looking pretty good for a one-armed bandage."

Jan grinned but felt he needed to lay down some ground rules until he felt a bit more stable, given what had happened last time Denny made him laugh out loud. He pulled the mask down slightly. "Under… no circumstances… are you to say anything even vaguely… amusing for the next… couple of days."

Denny pulled his feet onto the floor, leant over and firmly replaced the mask over his face. "Keep that on, please? If they thought you could get away with a nose cannula, they'd have given you one."

"It's like talking from the bottom of a well!"

"S'alright. I can hear you. And don't worry about me pulling the funnies. I'm not even vaguely in the mood after six… fucking hours being repeatedly x-rayed." Denny followed Jan's concerned glance down to his plastered forearm. "I got shot, apparently."

"What?" No wonder the guy looked haggard.

"Friendly fire. One of the beat cops got a little panicked and trigger happy. Doesn't really hurt. I thought it was your blood till your slightly creepy Captain pointed out that my sleeve was getting wetter rather than drier." Denny stretched and stood. "Speaking of creepy Captains – boy, does he stare! - he took Theo home with him last night, and Stefan left the ED to pick him up from Renard this morning."

Jan shifted uncomfortably. It just seemed like everyone was reuniting in the hospital because of him. "Stefan ok?"

"Yeah – I thought it was worse, but he was just stunned by a baseball bat between the shoulders. He's fine. We swapped numbers. Stefan'll bring Theo in tomorrow for a visit, when you're feeling a bit more human."

Jan looked down at his very thorough bandaging: as much as he desperately needed to see Theo, he didn't want his kid seeing him… like this. He'd had enough of that. Denny caught on immediately.

"Don't worry – I'll swing by first thing tomorrow with some gear for you. Oh – before I forget―" Denny pulled out Jan's mobile and put it down on the bedside cabinet. "I'm no technowiz, but I think I fixed it. I reassembled it, it sulked for a bit, but seems to be up and running. I took the liberty of putting my number in it."

Jan felt ludicrously happy about this for reasons he couldn't quite pin down. "Thank you."

"Welcome. I'll bring you a razor, too." Denny finally managed a wry grin. "You've got time-warp stubble."

"What's that?"

"Hair growth out of proportion to the time of day – or time of the week, in your case. You've already got Tuesday's five o'clock shadow. You'll look like Robinson Crusoe by this evening."

"Grows fast. It's a Lowen thing. What about Nick?"

Denny shrugged. "Oh, he's like a duckling – just a bit of down. It'll probably take him about two months to muster half a beard."

Jan suspected that Denny was trying to slope off without telling him something. "Denny!"

"Alright!" He looked a little wild-eyed. "He's being very, very cooperative."

"Shit."

"I sat with him for a bit while I was waiting for my _fourth_ x-ray and they were setting up the CT scanner. I was close enough to hear the results when he came out. It's a subdural haematoma, Jan. If he hasn't improved by this evening, they'll need to go in with a surgical intervention."

Jan felt sick. A bleed on the brain.

"Did he get hit again?"

Denny laughed hollowly. "Hell, no. Those Klaustreich couldn't get near him! He was _awesome_, Jan. Had his full Grimm on – I think he passed me about eight of them to smack, but must have taken down about twenty of them in two minutes. No, the bleed was caused by a fracture to the back of the head, caused by yours truly flinging him against the wall. All the signs were there – slurring, lack of focus, alternate bursts of lucidity and confusion… I just allowed myself to believe that his 'Grimm' had fixed all that. I didn't realise how serious it was until his legs just went from underneath him."

Jan took a deep breath and tried to strike the right tone. Placating Denny would aggravate him. And he knew exactly how he felt. Also, he kept wondering whether he should've felt something wrong while holding Nick's head off the floor. Nothing _felt _soft or out of place, but he was no doctor. "That only happened because you urgently tried to stop me doing something suicidal while I wasn't myself. I'm not feeling great about my part in all this. Look, if we're going to get into a debate about whose fault it is, it's going to get very competitive around here."

"You're probably right." Denny sighed. "I'm just … bloody knackered. I'll probably be in a better frame of mind later." He was nearly at the door before Jan got enough volume into his voice to call after him.

"Denny…Den! You saved Monroe, and you saved my ass, _twice_. You've done more than Theo or I could ever possibly thank you for. It's not all shame, shame, shame."

Denny paused and gave him a slightly shaky smile. "Thanks. See you in a bit."

**. . . . .**

Denny stuck his head around Nick's door on his way out to find him still completely, flatly unconscious – without even a pillow - bare from the waist up, covered in bruises, gauze and wire. He had a bolster under his knees, but that's about as far as comfort seemed to go. Nick made the odd, hard swallowing motion from time to time and opened and closed his hands – as he had done while having his ear packed - but was otherwise completely still. It was the stillness that really got to him. It was wrong: he could still hear both of Nick's voices in his head: the Grimm voice of doom on one hand, and the slightly drunken giggle and 'Jan went clang', on the other.

He checked the obs board at the foot of the bed, having to hold the clipboard up at an angle to catch the light coming in through the door. The room was dark: Nick was likely to have fairly severe photophobia when he woke up. The unassisted breathing, even pupils (thank GOD), steady pulse and well-regulated temperature were all promising: and actually better than they should've been for someone in Nick's condition. But he looked completely lost in his sleep, like something from very far away was worrying him.

Nick's GCS, his consciousness score, was far more concerning: a pathetic eight, showing eye-opening and movement in response to pain only, and unintelligible speech. The highest score of the 'serious injury' scale. What would happen when Nick came round? Would he lose his Grimm? Would the Grimm lose Nick? God only knew what the long-term effects would be.

Denny slammed the clipboard back in its holder and clutched the edge of the bedframe until he felt it creak beneath his fingers. If only he'd known they would only have had to wait another ten minutes until help finally arrived.

"I'm really sorry, mate. Remember that offer to give me a slap when you get better? It still stands."

He lifted Nick's arm back onto the mattress, pulled the blanket all the way back up to his shoulders, and tucked him in a little. It just seemed wrong to leave him looking so unnecessarily... vulnerable.

. . . . .

Monroe entered Nick's room behind Denny, trying not to startle him. He appreciated Denny's gesture in covering Nick over. He didn't need any skin for what he needed to do, anyway: Dr Maier had considerately dropped off a wide -nozzle kit to help him to pump the anti-pheromone directly into the dial on the IV, rather give one of those horrid injections.

"Thanks," he murmured, keeping an eye on the door. "I was about to do that myself. It's hardly a sauna in here, is it?"

"Hardly." Denny indicated the syringe. "What's that stuff?"

"One of his two daily doses of anti-man-magnet. Someone's got the hots for our undressed Grimm. I must've covered him over at least twice this morning, and every time I come back… well. Hopefully he'll get a bit of peace and stay warm, now. How's your arm?"

"Stings a bit. Nothing troublesome." Denny cleared his throat. "Look, I've got to wash up, get to the office, do my witness statement at Portland… all that. Are you going to stick around for a while?"

"Sure, I'm not being released quite yet." In fact, the charmless Dr Daly told him that he was going nowhere until he'd drunk and peed out at least four PH-balanced, blood-free quarts of water. Rosie had gone home to rest. They both felt that she didn't necessarily need to be witness to this form of treatment. "I'll sit with him. It's not a problem."

Denny paused at the door. "You guys are pretty tight, right? You and Nick,that is."

Monroe felt vaguely honoured by this observation. "I guess we've become that way."

"Well, if… _when _he wakes up, how will you know that he's… y'know, himself?"

Monroe frowned. A bit of a morbid question, really. "Uh, well, ideally, he'll ask me to do something completely unreasonable soon after waking. Then I'll know it's business as usual. He's unbelievably persuasive when he's in form."

"Is that a Grimm thing?"

"Uh, no. It's definitely a Nick thing. He'll look at you and ask you to do something for him as if he's asking you to do your bit to make the planet a safer place, even if it's just the ordering of a less spicy pizza topping than last time, and you find yourself doing it."

Denny raised his brows. "Sounds a bit trying."

Monroe laughed. "I've got to admit, I've got mixed reviews on this one. You gain a lot from having a comfy place on the moral high ground and knowing your rightful place in a bigger, better universe. But on the other hand, you lose a lot, like skin on your elbows, funds in your bank account, degree points on your thermometer as you chase stupid wesen through the woods with him..."

"Have you tried saying no?"

"The only thing I _haven't_ tried is faking my own death. But knowing him, he'd just come visit me in the morgue and ask me why I was being difficult."

Denny's laugh seemed just a little nervous. "Persistent sod. Ok, later. I'll be in touch."

Monroe stared after Denny as he stalked off down the corridor unnaturally fast. He'd been joking about faking his own death. He wasn't so sure that came across properly…. He pulled a seat up next to Nick's bed and rested a hand under the arm under the blanket. "I think our friendly Siegbarste thinks he's broken the Grimm. C'mon buddy. Let's just get Nick back first, huh? We'll worry about the rest, later."

A tiny part of him couldn't help thinking that the poor guy's life would be a hell of a lot easier if the Grimm part never came back.

**X x X**

**Sunday 18:00**

Hank stomped up the main steps of Portland General and held the door open for a tall, pinched-looking woman with a dark geometric bob and a newborn strapped to her front. She stalked out past him as if she'd expected doors to open for her all by themselves, anyway. Hank felt like yelling "You're welcome!" after her, but rolled his eyes and strode on in. Who said that gracious responses to chivalry were dead? It wasn't usually something that bugged him. It'd just been a long, long day with still hardly any detectives back in the office and about fifteen dodgy cat-people to book and lock up. Poor Wu looked ready to drop.

Denny caught up from behind with his own expression of thunder. He was carrying a sports bag and had changed into jeans, shirt and leather jacket. "Hey."

"Back already, huh?"

"Bit concerned. I went back to the club to get the external video footage for Renard and… guess what? The manager, in his greedy wisdom, already decided that he'd sell it to DCD corp. So the whole fucking fight's started splashing all over the news. It's a good job I've been fired, really. Made it much less complicated to decide whether or not to smack him in the mouth."

"Oh, hell." Hank sighed. "Were Jan and Nick mentioned?"

"Not by name. But the voiceover says 'good Samaritans came to the rescue of two under-fire cops dealing with an out-of-control drugs bust…' just as the close-up of the med-copter sharpens. There's no mistaking Jan anyway, at his size, but there's pretty clear footage of you hauling Nick in."

So anyone who'd escaped the sweep of arrests decided they wanted to show their resentment towards the under-fire cops pretty much knew exactly where to come. Hank needed to get both guys under guard and, ideally, moved off 'cop corridor'. But he felt there was time for one thing before they went upstairs. He stopped in front of Denny and put his hand out. "Thanks, man, for helping me get Nick on board. I seriously thought they were going to leave him behind."

Denny shook, grudgingly. "I'll feel a hell of a lot better about all this 'gratitude' when the guy's actually woken up again."

Hank pressed the lift button for the eighth floor and they both shifted awkwardly as it creeped up at the speed of a two-toed sloth with a broken toe. It was like they were sharing the same cold feeling, all of a sudden. The doors opened, they bolted out and round the corner to Nick's room. The ECG wasn't exactly going nuts, but the ting-ting-ting of Nick's pulse raising steadily was shrill. Nick was fitful - still totally out cold but tossing and turning… in slow motion. He screwed his face up and tried to lift his hand to his head, but neither coordination nor strength were there and his arm kept dropping down to his chest and shoulder. He was breaking a fierce sweat. Hank was about to slam the nurse's alarm, when Denny stopped him.

"Nightmare?" Hank asked Denny. "His last memory would've been of that bitch pointing a gun in his face, so―"

"Maybe. Is it a hot sweat, or cold sweat?"

Hank put his hand on Nick's forehead. "Cold."

"Ok, pain. Hang on…"

"Check the IV." A really deep voice from the doorway – heavily accented.

Hank looked round at Vergeer, mad. "What the hell you doing up, man? Last time I looked, you were being de-fibbed. Get back in bed!"

"I'm trying to help! I heard the ECG. If this is Annalise, she'll have turned the IV off. It's almost her trade mark: if she can't cause harm, she'll prevent comfort."

"Who's Annalise?" Hank asked.

"My… wife."

Hank stared. "Sounds a real sweetheart."

"You'll never know."

Denny ran a professional eye up and down the line from the back of Nick's hand to the bag. The dial was switched all the way over. He flipped it back and squeezed the bag, sending a fast-drip cascade back into Nick's system. It took a few minutes, but Nick's breathing slowed, his pulse came down, his shoulders un-bunched.

Monroe appeared at the door behind Jan, looking pale and aghast. "What the hell?"

"His IV got shut off," Hank muttered. "I'm calling the captain. We need to get a photo of Annalise – give it to the hospital staff."

"I was gone ten minutes!"

Denny cast an amused eye over at him. "Don't tell me you were having a slash?"

"I've gotten through three quarts of water this afternoon. I held on as long as I could!"

"Guys," Jan muttered, "let's not argue. We've got to get Nick moved. But there's no good handing photos out – she'll have changed her appearance."

"What does she usually look like?"

"About 5-10, very slim – about 140lb. Usually has long , light brown hair."

Hank remembered pinched-face charmless woman barging past him at the entrance in a hurry. "She'll have had a baby with her, right?"

Jan shrugged and the movement clearly cost him. He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth for a moment. "Unless she's got another 'friend' to help, yeah."

"We may have passed her on the way in. I'll get a photo freeze from the front carpark security cameras and you can tell me whether it's her or not. Now get back in bed before you fall over. I'm gonna go tear two strips off the fool that's supposed to be watching your room."

. . . . .

"G't 'm off her. He's grabby…"

Jan stumbled over to Nick's bed and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Bad dream. Easy…."

"No, that's good." Denny seemed to have brightened a little. "To have a bad dream, he needs to be in REM sleep, and to be at that stage, he needs to be more responsive. There was nothing going on up 'here' earlier" he tapped his temple "than simple pain response. Annalise may have accidentally done him a favour. He's worried about someone."

"…not.. safe out here…"

"His girlfriend," Jan muttered.

"Ex-girlfriend," Monroe corrected.

"Fine, the woman he loves, the red-head? Juliette, was it? She was out with a Ziegvolk. A nasty one. He's clearly still stressing about it. Can we get her here? It might calm him down a bit."

"You lot, move!"

They startled simultaneously and Jan turned with a groan to see the Hasslich Nurse fold her arms at him. That was always bad news.

"You are all distressing him. Go away. And _you, _Lieutenant, get back in your bed immediately!"

"Burkhardt was my partner," Jan started. "I can't just walk away, and―"

"I don't care if he's your husband! If you're not in bed in two minutes, you will be taken to your room by security, and drugged. As for the rest of you, there is no point in hanging around. He is being moved to the head trauma unit at Treeview at seven."

Denny met his eyes, concerned. "Bollocks. We need him where we can keep an eye on him. This new muttering's good, but only so long as it doesn't raise his intercranial pressure. Monroe, do you have her number?"

"Ah… no, sorry. She moved out of Nick's place a little while ago, and we were never really… that tight. Lots of secrets. Maybe we can get a charger for Nick's phone and call her while it's plugged in? They usually have that kind of thing at the nurse's bank."

Denny nodded. "Brilliant plan. Right Jan, go to the desk and apply charm."

Jan gasped at the magnitude of this task, particularly considering how breathless he was feeling. Fast recovery or not, there was probably a good reason for him staying on the oxygen. "What? You heard the troll – she hates me! All she ever says to me is 'go to… bed'."

Hank returned to the room, pocketing his mobile. "You're doing well, then. All she ever says to me is 'go'. Security are emailing baby-lady's photo upstairs. It should come through in a moment.

Jan made a last-minute attempt to evade charm duty. "You must have Juliette's number, surely?"

Hank blushed. "I did – next of kin, and all that, but…. I got a little heavy trying to play cupid after she moved out of Nick's, so she changed it. Please don't tell Nick that, ok? It's kind of… my fault. You'd better chance your arm with the truck-faced troll."

Jan rolled his eyes and tried to stand up straight from the door-jamb. Then it struck him. "Hank, how did you know that the nurse was a…"

"It's a figure of speech." Hank screwed his face up. "You mean, the lady I always thought was 'a bit of a troll' _is_ actually... A troll? And come to think of it Vergeer, how did _you_ know she was...?"

Jan and Hank jumped slightly as Denny clapped his hands between them. "Fellas, a bit of focus, please? That's a different conversation, for a different day. Maybe we'll have it over morning pancakes. Or a knitting class. Or anything a bit more fucking restful than this."

"Fine. I'll do my best." Jan wrapped one of Nick's room towels round his waist in case his state of undress was part of the problem and creaked his way over to the nurse's bank. The trolless looked up and glowered.

"You're up. I'm dialling security and ordering dopamine."

"I will go right back to bed and stay there for a week. But first, if you're able to find one, I would really appreciate putting down a deposit on borrowing the ipod charger. My friend has next of kin." He tried a placating smile. "It's the only way of tracking some of them down. I'm sorry to be a pain."

"Uncooperative patient on the eighth floor. Movements in contravention with personal safety and recovery. Please assist."

Jan returned to Nick's room, defeated. Denny met his eyes expectantly.

"And your impact was….?"

Jan indicated his empty hands. "Negligible, as you can see!" Which was a shame, because the brief kiss Nick and Juliette had shared through the window of the taxi seemed so… heartfelt, even through the great big waves of awkwardness, and her telling him not to be a stranger, and – "Goddamit! I'm so stupid! Is Nick's wallet in his cabinet?"

Denny rifled, found it. Jan pulled out the card with Juliette's new number and waved it victoriously. "Denny, give us your phone!" He punched the number out hurriedly, and she picked up on the third ring, sounding harassed.

**X x X**

**Sunday 18:35**

It seemed absolutely bizarre to be able to see the guy that was calling her about ten feet away, wearing not a _great_ deal, but the guys hanging outside – presumably – Nick's room were facing the wrong way. Jan had a nice voice, she had to give him that, quite a strong voice for someone who'd looked very much on death's door on the TV, but it was all getting a little frustrating. The nurse wouldn't let her through: she was not a fiancée, a sister, or a relative. She hung up the phone and called over.

"Hank! Guys! A little help?"

Hank glanced over to her and tapped Jan on the shoulder. "Got to hand it to you. You work fast."

Jan trotted to meet her and funnelled her towards Nick's room.

"Security's coming!"

The Dutch guy lost his cool. "If I get any more harassment from you before I've reunited my friend with his family, I swear I will unwrap all this crap and tie it round your head!"

Juliette stared up at him astonished. "You're looking.. uh… well!"

"All the better for seeing you. This way…"

It was too much of a miracle recovery for her to let it lie. "I saw the news. You were being airlifted. With Nick. You were also being resuscitated!"

"And they did a really excellent job. In here…" He shovelled her gently into a darkened room, but not so dark that she didn't see the guys in white coats coming up behind him and pop something pointy into the back of his right shoulder. He looked over in confusion and irritation for a moment, then swayed. "D-Denny…."

"Yeah, helping. Pillock."

'Denny', a nearly-blonde guy, nearly as huge as Jan (and frankly, almost as good-looking) took the majority of his weight and lowered him into the wheelchair that had appeared.

"I'll take over here. You'd best lie down, not that you have a choice. And you say Nick's uncooperative?"

Jan looked up with such bleary confusion at his friend that Juliette almost smiled. "Et tu, B-Brutus?" Then he was wheeled out.

Then she saw Nick, and finally understood the urgency. He was groaning softly in his sleep and mumbling. Well, rumbling: she couldn't really pick out anything of what he was saying, but he was in a complete state.

Denny put his hand on her shoulder. "I know this is a bit of an ask, but I think he's been having bad dreams about you getting hurt. So if you could see you way to letting him know that you're there… it'll help. A lot."

She went up to the head of his bed and pulled his hair out of his eyes with her fingers. He calmed down, just a little, tilting his face towards her. He was horribly bruised on one side. She brushed her thumb across his cheekbone, as that appeared to be the only part that wouldn't hurt on impact. "What happened to him?"

"Um… kicked in the head – bust an eardrum. Then thrown at a wall. Then bounced up and down. Beaten up… threatened at gunpoint… not really his night."

"Gettoff her…"

Not really his night? And still worried about _her_? She had no idea how she felt about him these days, except affectionate: the flashing images she had of the surly Captain never quite went away, however much she tried to ignore them, but neither did her growing feelings for the man she was supposed to have shared her life with. Was it love? No. Not yet. Too tangled in complication. Fondness she could do. Compassion, she could certainly do. She kissed him. Just a brush. On the cheeks, then the lips. Nick blinked distantly.

"See? I'm fine, Nick. There's nothing to worry about." Actually, kissing him on the lips _was_ pretty nice, so she did it again anyway. "Let's focus on getting you laid down safe, alright?"

"'K."

She turned back to Denny. "Did he just reply?"

Denny looked like he didn't dare hope.

"But… stick me on the p-peanuts… not the table."

She blinked. "Pardon, honey?"

"Peanuts are better," Nick asserted sleepily. "Softer."

Denny was now grinning very, very broadly, which she didn't get, considering Nick was showing every sign of serious, serious damage. "Don't worry, that is a _good_ sign. There's method in the madness. Trust me. I'll leave you guys alone. I've a feeling he's coming round, soon."

The guy had the tact to withdraw, and she took Nick's hand in hers, feeling a really light pressure in the fingers that was reassuring. Outside the window there was a whoop from Hank and she turned to see them taking turns to share high-fiving. Monroe was noted something down in a tiny book. Nice guys. WEIRD. But nice. Obviously cared a great deal about Nick. It took him a while to come round, but feeling his hand coming back to life was a really good start.

**X x X**

**Sunday 19:10**

Denny looked in on Jan and was slightly amused to see that they'd attached his right wrist to the guard rail on his bed with a handcuff, for now, to keep him still. He wasn't asleep, but very, very groggy, breaking in and out of a doze on his tilted bed. "Pillock," he muttered again, laughed, dropped the sports bag of spare gear off, and almost skipped down the stairs.

He actually enjoyed the cigarette he had outside the building, enjoying it all the more for the crisp air that blew over him smoothly for the lack of weight on his shoulders, and even more for the fact that he was flagrantly doing so under a no-smoking sign. His phone rang in his back pocket: Stefan.

"Yep?"

"Hey look, I've been scrambled."

"Sounds painful."

"Ha! Called up – required on duty, etc?"

"I'm English, you prat – I know what 'scrambled' means, even in military speak. So what's this got to do with me?"

"Well I'm just parking up at Eugene airport right now, but I've had to drop Theo back off with Renard. Unfortunately, he was sitting with a child psychologist, who thinks it's appalling that this little boy hasn't seen his father in two days. They're on their way in for a visit. Just thought I'd warn you."

Across the carpark, Denny saw the unmistakeable form of Renard unfolding himself stiffly from a car. A little boy stomped out of a back seat and clung to his hand. Even from this distance, he could sense the obbrobrium in which Theo held the solid lady walking around the back of the car and trying to take his hand in a motherly way.

"Fuck!" Denny stubbed out and legged it indoors. "You utter cock – could you not have told me this on leaving the precinct rather than arriving at the airport?"

"You were politer, earlier," Stefan said mildly. "Watch it in front of Theo at least, will you?"

Denny sighed. "Yeah, fine. Good luck, mate. Catch you some time, no doubt…." He reached into the lift, sealed the doors, and kicked the panel out. That should delay them a bit. He nearly regretted that when he had to then pull the doors open by hand, but managed to sprint up the stairs three at a time to the eighth floor. He threw himself into Jan's room and gesticulated wildly between the security officer and the cuff, while throwing clothes out of the bag onto the bed.

"Get that off. Now!"

"I've been told to―"

"DO IT RIGHT BLOODY NOW BEFORE I SPREAD YOU ACROSS THE WALL!" He cleared his throat and spoke more normally. "Believe me, I'm good at that."

The guard fumbled and unbuckled and he fled, and Denny wasn't particularly reassured by Jan's hand banging down on the mattress.

"Jan, up."

"Hi Brutus."

"Theo's on his way in."

"Wh-WHAT?"

"Thought that'd sober you. Right – arms up." Denny launched a deodorant spray attack that left Jan spluttering wildly. "Hair!" He grabbed a couple of bottles of Portland Spring out of the sports bag and dumped them on the plank-table alongside the bed while he ran around trying to find a shaving bowl and mirror. He turned to find Jan downing one of the bottles. "You're supposed to be wetting your hair! Oh for God's sake…" He upended half the second bottle over Jan.

"AGH! WET ENOUGH! ALRIGHT!"

"Comb!"

"Did you put that bottle in the fridge?" Jan towelled the worst of the water off with the bed blanket and staggered over to the mirror to brush through and tidy himself up a bit. The icy water had worked well – he looked very much more alert as he looked back at Denny's reflection in the mirror. "Um…. Clothes?"

Denny grinned. "Good plan." Slightly more gently, he eased a teeshirt sleeve over Jan's left shoulder, then tugged it over his head and right arm. Jan peered down the front of it while Denny made a concertina out of one of the jeans legs.

"Cookie monster? Really?"

"I was going for approachable," Denny muttered. "Denims. Foot!"

"Thanks, Denny. I think I can do this bit. I'm a bit more… compost mentis."

"You'd sound more convincing if you were _compos_ mentis, mate." But Denny was pleased to see Jan make a reasonably competent job of pulling the jeans on. "They're mine, so might be a _little_ short above the ankle, but I don't think Theo will hold that against you."

Jan flashed him a brilliant grin. "Do I have time to shave?"

"Er…" Denny peered down the corridor and saw Renard emerge with a very cross little boy and the bustling woman. "Probably not, to be honest. He's with a social-worker/psych type and I doubt she'll accept much… stalling. I'll do what I can to give you a moment to limber up, though."

He was just leaving as Jan caught his arm, lightly. "Yeah?"

"What I said earlier about you saving my butt twice? That's three times, now. You're one in a million, Schlaubaast."

"You're welcome. Make a good entrance, eh?" Denny trotted down the corridor and greeted the Captain, who looked exhausted just watching the woman striding ahead and checking rooms with a rude peek through windows, calling back 'come along!'. Theo tugged at the Captain's fingers.

"Sean, can you make her stop?"

"I don't think the apocalypse can make her stop."

Theo frowned. "What's the apokylips?"

"The end of the world," Denny explained.

The little boy appeared to consider this. "Won't her … talking… _cause_ the end of the world?"

Renard actually burst out laughing, an action which Denny seriously hadn't thought that the man was physically capable of. He was like a walking part of Mount Rushmore the rest of the time, albeit clearly with a kindly streak. "You have my permission not to listen."

Theo _wasn't_ listening. His face had lit up and he was looking past Denny to a distant point down the corridor, where Jan had slowly eased down onto his knees with his arms out.

"DADDY!"

The little boy pelted down the corridor with the disorganised limb-flailing sprint of little people everywhere, still yelling joyfully, trying to close the distance. He didn't slow down but rammed straight into Jan – which had to have _really_ hurt – and wrapped his arms round as far as they would go while bouncing up and down. If it was crippling him physically, Jan showed no signs of it whatsoever. At the top of his bounce, Theo's head just about came half-way up Jan's chest, highlighting just how little he was.

Jan wrapped his arms around his little boy and stooped to rest his face in the light brown hair, giving his head a kiss. Theo's head all but disappeared behind Jan's hand as he gave him a full on-chest cuddle that seemed to go on forever. Hank and Monroe, Denny noted, had a rather severe case of face-rain. As did he. Nick, at least, was sitting up in bed, blearily delighted at the reunion going on outside his room, holding Juliette's hand, who'd clearly got caught up in the moment and was howling into her sleeve.

Eventually, Theo looked up and Jan ruffled his hair.

"No more accidents, Daddy?"

Jan stood slowly, lifting Theo up onto his right hip. "You know what, little man? I think Portland's a very, very safe city."

Denny didn't know about that – not with Annalise still around. But at least with Jan's entire Pride in place, especially his little boy, she probably didn't stand a chance.


	12. Cop vs Nick vs Grimm

**Hi Guys – penultimate part, now. Thanks all so much for the reads and wonderful reviews! I really appreciate you following this story for so many chapters. **

**I hope that all and any of you guys caught on the east coast are beginning to do better. Hurricane Sandy is everywhere on the news here, and we've all been very concerned in the UK! Thinking of you.**

**X x X**

At first waking, Nick felt as if all the guys had gone out drinking after all, and kindly donated him their hangovers. He was kept drugged to the eyeballs and his room kept dark but he definitely had a clear recollection of Juliette coming in to see him a couple of days back. It wasn't a long visit: he had trouble keeping his throat clear and she'd gone for medical help after about half an hour because he sounded 'weird'. She'd texted a few times and they'd chatted online a bit, but she hadn't returned.

Two neurologists and another scan later, he had a third neurologist at the end of his bed, explaining that things like altered-accent syndrome weren't uncommon with such a serious blow to the head and that these things _usually_ went away by themselves within a few days. Or weeks. Granted, it wasn't typical for someone's voice to drop nearly a whole octave and take on a slightly cavernous quality, but the brain was a funny thing. Altered accent syndrome was probably the nearest likely human explanation for him being physically incapable of switching _off_ the voice-of-doom, as the boys so kindly put it. Jan nearly went out of his wheelchair backwards at the start of their first conversation after his waking, but was gracious enough to use small, discreet balls of cotton wool in his ears to muffle the worst of the 'wesen dread' in the air. Denny opted for tactics of polite evasion: though he had his hands full with Theo while Jan was recovering. Monroe's strategy for hanging around was to have his ipod on low volume playing 'walking on sunshine' while they were talking – something that Nick was finding increasingly irritating.

"Dude, c'mon. Cut me a little slack here. Look on the bright side―"

"_There's a bright side_?_"_

"Well, they reckon you'll be stable enough for the anaesthetic to get your ear fixed tomorrow, so at least the tinny noise won't bug you so much. Have some more juice."

"_I've got juice coming out of my damned…ears. Ok. Fine, sorry. I'm tired and grumpy._" Nick pulled himself upright and sipped and nearly jumped at the sight of an inquisitive little face inspecting him from about two feet away by his bedside. "_Uh, hi_?"

"You're Nick?"

Nick cleared his throat. "_Theo_?"

"You're all echoey. Denny says it's because you banged your head. Which bit did you bang? Was it most of it?"

Nick smiled in spite of himself. "_Kind of feels that way, yeah. Where is Denny, by the way? You're supposed to be under constant watch."_

Denny appeared at the doorway wearing wraparound shades, listening to 'always look on the bright side of life'. "He is." He chucked Nick his doorkeys and stepped in like a man who'd had very, very little sleep. "Thanks for lending us your place. My flat's still full of boxes. Not really… tot friendly."

Nick tossed them back. "_Keep the keys for now. I'm not going anywhere anytime soon. Did you have a good night with Denny, last night?_"

"Oh yeah! We played slippery customer, and superheroes. He's very good at Hulk but terrible at Lex Luthor."

"Theo, there's only so much menace I can display while I'm making 'pangcakes'. I have to focus a bit in the kitchen. And incidentally, 'slippery customer' is not a 'game'. Ok?"

Theo frowned. "You didn't think it was fun?"

"No, I thought it was a nightmare." Nick looked at Denny sympathetically as he gave a rib-stretching yawn. "_Dare I ask what 'slippery customer' involves?"_

"It mostly involved Theo running out of the shower and _all _the way round the house before rinsing the soap off. It was a bit of an ordeal, to be honest. I cleaned up as best as I could. Theo – could you stay and look after Nick and Monroe for a little bit? I just need to chat to your dad. Guys - Rendez-vous in the men's rest room at half ten, ok?"

And a vase of coffee, Nick suspected. He looked down to see Theo trying to clamber up on his bed in the usual toddler style, using his face and fingertips as anchors on the mattress and flailing wildly with his legs. He bent over and cupped his hand under one of Theo's feet to give him something to push up against.

"Th..thanks," the kid said breathlessly and scrambled all the way up the bed, making himself comfy pretty much in Nick's armpit. "So, you're a Grimm?"

The directness made Nick blink. "_Yeah. And a cop._"

Theo boggled. "Isn't that really… complicerated?"

"_Incredibly._"

"When do you get to be Nick?"

It was probably the most profound question anyone had asked him for some months, but as these things often happen, when someone kicks you suddenly in the stomach, truth comes out whether you like it or not: "_Well I may not sound like it, but I'm Nick now. I'm all three. It just depends on who gets to be boss in any particular situation. At the moment, Grimm seems to be boss._"

Theo seemed to be measuring them both: body height, leg length. He stuck a thumb up and put it next to Nick's hand, which was – unsurprisingly – quite a lot larger. "You're bigger than I thought."

"_What were you expecting?"_

"I was expecting someone smaller and a bit silly."

"He's still a bit silly," assured Monroe.

"Only small and silly cause daddy told me about the story with the guide dog and the pole."

"_DID HE?_" Nick intoned, and even Theo looked startled at that one, but only for a fraction of a second because it was very clear, looking directly at him as the 'hero' of this story, that it had suddenly come alive for him in his little head. He gave a gurgly chuckle, holding his ribs, then clapped a guilty hand over his mouth like nobody could possibly guess he was laughing underneath it. You couldn't get cross about that. Also, as a bonus, he'd moved onto Monroe.

"Denny says you're a Bavarian Alpha wolf."

Nick sucked on his carton of juice and watched with interest while Monroe struggled under the spotlight.

"That's right…" Monroe began tenuously… "But I'm um…a nice one."

"Why do you dress like a lumberjack?"

"Do I?"

"As a big bad wolf, don't you get scared dressing like a woodcutter in the morning?"

Monroe spluttered like it was _him_ taking juice down the wrong way while Nick laughed silently into his hands. "Thank you for the concern but no, I do _not _freak myself out with my own clothes when I get dressed in the morning!"

"Wow!" Theo looked genuinely wide-eyed. "You must be brave."

"_He is,_" Nick cut in, showing a tiny bit of loyalty. Only a tiny bit, though. "_He can even pick up an axe without screaming like a girl._"

Monroe gave him a glacial smile. "I'm going to see how Denny's getting on with setting up our rendez-vous."

"Can you tell me the guide dog story? Daddy said it was only meant so I could prove who I was to you if I needed to."

That had to be pretty much the saddest thing that Nick had ever heard. Theo gave Nick 'the eyes', making them as wide as possible to get him to embarrass himself with this tale and Nick knew he was being suckered, even though he knew he must be doing the '_other_' eyes back at the unflappable kid. But Theo was an innocent, unaffected by the voice or the eyes, not having done anything in life to feel guilty about except maybe stamping an anthill or crayoning a wall. And he was too little to fear being 'caught' as a Lowen. In Theo's presence, he started feeling a little more himself, scooping the kid up and popping him on his lap.

"_Tell you what. Why don't I tell you a story about…_ your dad… and some pans…?"

He grinned along with Theo before he'd even started. Wahay – some normal voice back. Long may it last.

**X x X**

Sean had been sitting on van Maarten's text for a couple of days. After an initial burst of pleasantry – congratulations on recovering Vergeer, and so on, the non-deferential, blunt Jagerbar had returned to form with a shorter response to the list of the arrested that he'd emailed over. "You are missing the wife, Dries and Kasper (middle brothers). Vergeer and children not safe while they are in the wind, even with a pride formed. I wish to extradite. Urgent confirmation welcome."

Sean had not sent the urgent confirmation: van Maarten's tone, again, was irritating and he had his hands full over two days with the fielding the fall-out from the televised Klaustreich fight. It had been challenging, but not beyond him: the presence of J on most of the arrested turned the event into Southlands II (the cops' revenge) and 'humanitarian awards' were to be presented to all the Lowen who'd dived in gallantly and drunkenly to protect two injured and outnumbered officers. They – and Miller, the hyper-protective Siegbarste security chief – were to receive 'the key to Portland'.

And he hadn't decided how he was going to deal with the missing Hildegaards. The simplest method of dispatching with the problem was to allow Nick to deal with it – whether as a cop or a Grimm. Juliette issues aside, he still largely trusted Burkhardt's judgement about which side of the line to stand on. Unfortunately, his unwittingly compliant Grimm could still barely stand up straight and Sean couldn't stick around for a strategy talk with him, either, even as a cop. His brief visit to see Nick had been undignified – he managed to cover his shock at the _Grimm _voice by 'tripping over the bin in the dark', wished Nick well and then ran before his inner Hexenbiest made an involuntary appearance. Since taking the potion, his control over it was weakening. One of these days someone would make a wise crack in the squadroom, meet his eye, and go straight into cardiac arrest.

His phone went off, making _him _jump. "What?"

"Remus van Maarten, here. Literally. At Portland International."

Sean stared at the phone in disbelief. "You actually got on a plane? For this extradition?"

"Hey, I gave you the chance to argue with me about it. You ignored me, so here I am. Jijerbaaren, Leeuwen, Klaustreechen -we Dutch are amazingly persistent. Hence Jan's not safe, unless he's found a champion. I'm coming straight to the precinct."

Sean felt a headache coming on from the effort of thinking around the lump in his head occupied by Juliette and trying to focus on being verbally bulleted by van Maarten. "Wait – what's a champion?"

"I did mention last time we spoke that Jan is a Patriarch, yes?"

"You said you _suspected_ it. And you gave the impression that it was a figure of speech. 'A people-protector, I suppose', is what you said."

"No, that was the impression you chose to take. I did not send you his life history for the fun of scanning documents. All Patriarchs have champions. Right-hand men who look out for them. It's one of the reasons they last so long since they're so goddamned… non-combative. Look, I'll come straight to the precinct. Do a little research while you wait – you Royals are so arrogant about this 'mythical' eighth family it's unbelievable."

"Who am I looking out for?"

"They'll have a strong bond. Well matched in strength, intelligence, usually – though not always – size. The champion will protect the Patriarch and anyone important to them. They usually come from a strong fighting pedigree. It's usually an unknowing relationship. At one point, it was my son, before Jan went to the States on secondment. Frans would never have allowed Jan to marry that utter…. Bitch."

Sean sighed. So Remus van Maarten was a furious father. It explained a great deal – his son's sacrifice apparently for nothing. "What happened to Frans?"

"Killed in the line of duty."

"I'm sorry." But the idea of a guy getting through a series of protectors – and the idea of Nick possibly being one of them – for any period of time - made Sean feel cold. "How does he deal with the deaths of champions on his conscience?"

"Like any cop deals with a friend or partner's death. Badly. You really haven't done any reading at all since we spoke, have you? They are completely different from the rest of the Royals. A true Patriarch will have no idea that they _are_ one. I have sent you an email – I suggest you read. I see you in an hour."

Van Maarten hung up on him and Sean kicked his cabinet with frustration. He was even more exasperated when his inbox pinged:

The wicked leader is he who the people despise

The good leader is he who the people revere

The greatest leader is he who the people say 'we did it ourselves'. [Lao Tsu]

_Do not be fooled by Vergeer's mildness. Choose which side you're on while you still have the chance. Remus._

He sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. The _only_ thing that made sense was Yvonne Sands going after Nick: he couldn't think of any other reason why she'd suddenly feel the need to blow Burkhardt's head off when her supposed nemesis was down, but not out. And he didn't like the idea of Nick ever being, or becoming the 'new' Champion. He had his own, broader plans for Nick which didn't involve him being tied up as Jan's unwitting bodyguard, however great, good and mighty the guy might turn out to be.

He called Hank and explained the outstanding threat of Dries and Kasper as well as Annalise. Jan and Nick had already been moved off cop's corridor, but it was time for 'lowered security' and entrapment. Arrests only, please, and don't let Nick get involved.

**X x X**

Denny collected Jan from his room by wheelchair and could see the physical effects on his friend of having taken a joyous bodyslam from his little boy the previous night. Jan was in good spirits and fully dressed – just not a very good colour. Or pair of colours – pale and flushed. And he winced pretty much every time he moved.

"Bad night?"

"Sore," Jan admitted. "How did you get on with Theo?"

"He kept me on my toes." He smiled wryly. "I quite enjoyed playing Transylvanian parking inspector – Christ he's got an imagination on him – but I'll be quite glad to ship him off to nursery tomorrow, if you'll let me."

Jan tilted his head. "You've found a nursery?"

"Nick told me about some Eisbiber friends of his – this lady called Sally has this really nice set-up in a church hall – wesen tots only – and she's been trying to get permanent premises for a business but you know – Hasslichen at the bank, Hasslichen at the control office… all a bit of a nightmare for her. But she's got the group up and running on an informal level and it would probably do him some good to have to share stuff with other kids."

Jan sighed. "Don't I know it. Go ahead, if you like the feel of the place. I'd rather Theo wasn't stuck around here all day listening to me wheezing. Maybe I can do something about the Hasslich."

"Maybe you can get yourself a bit better first, eh?" Denny shipped Jan out of the room, looked left and right up the corridor, then scurried to the lifts for the men's rest room on the third floor. The last thing he needed while they were all talking tactics was for Jan to be Safari'd and Tranq'd again. He doubted they'd use such a mild dose this time, and even with the plans afoot to draw Annalise in and arrest her, he had no plans to leave Jan any more vulnerable to attack. Hank caught up with him at the doorway and followed him in, chuckling at the 'out of order' sign he'd just slapped on the door.

Nick also in a wheelchair, had Theo on his lap enthusiastically unravelling a toilet roll and turning some lego characters into really, really fat mummies. Monroe leant up against a back wall, looking like he'd just survived a particularly exhausting conversation.

"_I've got an idea_―" Nick started, but had to pause while ears were blocked and nanopods switched on. He rolled his eyes. "Hank – what do I sound like?"

Hank gave a kind of non-committal shrug that made Denny laugh inwardly. "Kind of like Barry White performing live from the batcave, but then I'm not wesen, so it doesn't bother me overmuch."

"_Ok, my plan is to wait in the partition of Jan's room and let Annalise do the whole baby-naming thing with Jan first. It's a big deal – she's not going to do much else till she's finished that. Right, Monroe?_"

"Right. About the big deal – the strategy points? You're on your own."

"_And Denny can take the baby off Jan, and Hank and I can arrest her_."

Denny stared at Nick. "_That_ is your plan?" He laughed heartily. "No." He could've sworn he saw Monroe smirking out of the corner of his eye.

"_What's wrong with it?_"

"Well, it quite literally leaves me holding the baby, that's what's wrong with it! What are you going to do when her back-up arrives? Hank's gonna have his hands full with Angry Annalise, you're in no shape to be fighting off brothers, and there's a limit to what I can achieve with an armful of munchkin!"

"And you're off duty," Hank added more mildly.

Nick popped Theo down and stood, and in fairness, he was pretty steady… so long as he was just standing. "_I can come back on for this one thing._ _My Grimm's on. Can't turn the f- flipping Grimm off, actually._"

Denny exchanged a pained glance with Jan and sighed. "Look Nick, you're a really good bloke, but can I just make a gentle point? Shit! Geier!" he pointed in a panic.

Nick spun to follow the direction of his finger and pitched over backwards. Denny caught him and sat him down again. Nick went suitably pink. "_Fair point, unfairly made."_

"Apart from the logical side of your brain being on the fritz – would we not have pointed out a geier in the bog several minutes ago? – your balance is _right off._ You can't even do a 180 without getting vertigo. You are _not_ going back on duty. I have a different plan."

Even Monroe looked uncertain, as if he was next in line to be holding the baby. "Yeah…?"

"This plan is called 'listen to Hank'."

Hank visibly brightened. "I like this plan! Actually, it's not that far removed from what Nick suggested, except that Denny's my back-up. I'll be making the arrest. Theo – I want you to stick with Monroe and Nick. Renard's sent some undercover security, but they're only around because Jan keeps getting up, and their presence could be a bit of a problem if anyone openly woges. They're keen to get off to a ball game, so if they think that my presence is sufficient, they'll leave. So Jan, I'm afraid… you're going to have to have a fairly public, painful relapse and get yourself carted back to bed. Ideally on a gurney." Denny thought it was a little sweet that Hank felt the need to ruffle Theo's hair. "It'll be an act, of course."

Theo looked at Hank balefully. "You're going to arrest my mom."

"I'm afraid so."

"Denny, can you hit the uncles?"

"Certainly I can hit the uncles." Denny caught Hank's eye. "Using reasonable force."

"And bite them in the face?"

"No, that's unhygienic. I won't be doing that."

"Is this normal for three?" Monroe asked querulously at the back of the room.

Jan nodded at him gravely. "Tiny people are blood-thirsty. It's a fact of life, Eddie. Just think about who the original Grimm fairy tales were aimed at? Children. Under six."

"Yeah… right." Monroe looked shaken and Denny felt for him. At some point he'd need to take the guy to one side and remind him gently that his own kid would pop into the world probably as a tiny, manageable furry thing – not as a fully-formed blood-thirsty three-year-old who'd had a rough year.

A knock on the door made them all freeze. "Excuse me? What's going on in there?"

"Terrible illness!" Denny called back and signalled to Theo, who began his category of raspberries and assorted armpit farts. "The sign's for privacy. He's really not well. I suggest you find another rest room until…" Denny choked back a laugh as Nick and Monroe contributed synchronised throwing up noises. "… until he's recovered a bit."

"I'm going to get some help."

"NOT NECESSARY!" Denny yelled back, but they'd gone. He nodded to Nick and Monroe. "Ok – can I just finish talking tactics here?"

Nick nodded, scooped Theo back on his lap and they wheeled out of the bathroom, Monroe trailing behind. Jan caught his eye and he had the apprehensive, slightly glazed look of someone getting uncomfortably warm.

"Ok… so with Theo out of the room, what's my role in this, once I've 'relapsed'?"

"Not much, really. You need to draw in Mrs Munchausen, so just lie around looking half-dressed, hot and feeble."

Jan managed a smile. "Hot _and _feeble? That sounds a little taxing, Denny. Will you be giving out Oscars after this?"

"I meant fevered, you donk!"

"That sounds even harder! I think I'll just go for good old-fashioned out-cold, if it's all the same to you. Oh, and Hank – don't let her slap you. She's half Lowen."

Hank wiggled his piece in his belt. "Not too worried about that."

Jan looked grave, and Denny had to agree. "You should worry about it. Believe me. Half-lowen, half-klaus – like those things outside the club."

Hank paled a little. Jan wheeled a little closer. "I'm sorry. This must be really weird for you. Are you a new…. Grimm? How do you know so much about us?"

"Kind of a Grimm-by-proxy. I saw a few things that I really didn't want to see, thought I was cracking up, then found Nick could see the same things – only more so. He's kind of been… coaching me through the whole wesen-world… 'thing'. As has Monroe."

Denny put his hand out. "Welcome to the United Federation of Rare Species."

Hank took it, but shrugged. "Me? I'm human."

"You're a human, humanely trying to cope with the concept of wesen. Believe me, that makes you very, very rare." Jan took a deep breath and Denny saw the sweat beginning to form.

"Ok, back to your room. Now." He reversed with Jan out of the men's room and they were halfway down the corridor when Jan pitched forwards, senseless, and Denny bolted round – almost over – the chair to grab him before he hit the floor. "Fuck, you ok?"

"No, I'm having a 'painful and public relapse'," Jan muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

Denny's pulse came down – fractionally. "Bastard! A little warning, maybe?"

"Ok… so in retrospect, 'no time like… the p…present…'"

Denny and Hank had to stand back while Jan, predictably, got swarmed, safari'd and tranq'd. Denny hoped they'd move him to a room where they could discreetly keep an eye on him.

**X x X**

Hank watched Denny slide down the stairs for a quick smoke – it would be a while before Jan was uncluttered by Medics. He followed, intrigued, caught the big guy up just outside the building, lighting up.

"What are you going to do if the brothers are armed and they go for Jan?"

"I'm going to beat the living crap out of them, Hank. Just not something to say in front of a three-year-old-boy. Who apparently already knows the word 'crap' because 'that's what Sean said when the inconvenient-hug-lady decided she was driving to hospital'."

Hank frowned. "Sean?"

"Your Captain. Renard, to everyone else."

Hank snickered. "Hell. I missed that – Renard getting suckered by a kid." But there was a serious question, here. "Will you do it as you, or as a … Siegbarste?"

"Oh, you know, do you?"

"Well yeah, Nick texted us to let us know why he wasn't joining us in the club!"

"Ah, right. Forgot about that." Denny took a drag. "Bothers you, does it? My other half?"

"My first really nasty… wesen was with a Siegbarste. Some guy I put away, Oleg Stark. Got out, went after all the guys responsible for him being in prison – and went after Nick to find me. Handed his ass to him. He was in hospital for nearly a week."

"Sorry to hear that," Denny said stiffly. "But you should know - English Grimms aren't exactly a barrel of laughs either, but you don't see me holding that against Nick, do you?"

Hank blew air through his lips – stumped by that one. A fair point. "How long have you known Jan?"

"Since Siege night."

Hank stared at him. "Really? Like… two days? Cause you guys are _tight_! You're brothers-in-arms… I thought maybe you'd done a tour in Iraq a few years back, or something. My assumption was that he'd ended up at Tennant's bar after his shift because he was looking for _you_."

Denny stared into the skyline. "Yeah, we became tight pretty quickly, but that sort of happens in an emergency situation. I had this instinct… within moments of meeting him… that he might be a Patriarch. The air shifts around him. You feel more… hopeful, somehow. Have you noticed?"

"He's always been a really calm guy. I know that much. And…" Hank considered this. "And I guess I feel a bit more clear-headed when he's around. But I hadn't really given it much thought. So what's a Patriarch?"

"How much history has Nick taught you?"

"Ah hell, I'm not on duty yet! Couldn't you answer a question with an answer, rather than a question? That's the story of my damn life!"

"Ok – look, Monroe could probably tell you more. He keeps a book of Grimm, so he strikes me as the one to know all the history, but there's this old legend. There's seven Royal Wesen families and they go back centuries. Very dodgy, various species, want to take over the world, take up positions high in government and are generally pretty nasty buggers. Think Hitler, for scale, ok?"

Hank felt his pulse go a little bit quicker at this historical point of reference. "Were there more?"

"Well, the legend is that there was an eighth family, which disbanded by itself. Not really into world domination, and thought they'd do a better job of protecting their people if they kept a low profile than if they went to war. But they were far more capable than the rest of the Royals put together. They don't lead people – or if they do, it's on a fairly minor scale, like the Lieutenant of a Police department, making no comparisons to anyone we know. People just sort of … follow them."

Denny paused for a drag. "But they're totally lacking in cynicism, and generally need their backs watching. Think Marcus Aurelius and Decalus – popularised in cinematic fiction as 'Maximus'; think Arthur and Lancelot, and so on. The back-watchers are known as Champions, the disbanded Royals as 'Patriarchs'. They're the original 'good guys'. And if you come across one, you move heaven and bloody earth to stop one dying on your office floor."

"Woah." Hank felt like a drink in the middle of the day, which was unusual. "And Jan's 'Champion'?"

"Well, I'd presumed Nick, to be honest, with his 20mile-an-hour fire-lifting to get him out of danger."

"Is that why you fought so hard to get him in the med-evac copter?"

"Thought it was kind of important, yeah. History suggests that things do _not _end well for the Champion most of the time and I was hoping to break that habit. Besides, he's a good bloke."

Hank looked sideways at Denny, who was protective, pretty massive, and blatantly fond of Jan – Patriarch or not. "Hasn't it occurred to you that it might be you?"

Denny burst out laughing and gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder. "Lord love you – I'm a history teacher – or was – from Essex. Champions tend to come from a loftier breed, like … Jagerbar. A 'tame Grimm' seems to fit the bill. C'mon… let's go back up. They've probably finished plastering Jan with wires by now."

**X x X**

Jan felt that his floor-drop might have been a little overly convincing: having re-strapped him till kingdom come, they'd compensated for the discomfort by ramping up his pain-management by about 50% and pumping him with anti-pyrexics that just made him feel dopey. He was tilted back in bed, body back at 45 degrees, his legs bent up at the knees. He was aware of Denny and Hank checking on him, and then Hank disappearing into the corner of his room, by the curtain. Denny's 'room', under the fake name Det. Anton Janssen (he did make a convincing Dane, after all) had been moved a little further down the fourth floor corridor so it wouldn't take Annalise long to find where 'Anton' had been relocated to, and ergo – not far away – Jan. They had discreet earpieces: the guy would come running as and when needed, apparently. Jan lost most of the tactical details of what was explained to him. He was awake, but struggling to think or keep his eyes open. So he didn't bother. A little rest… wouldn't hurt. Especially as Theo was with people he trusted.

He woke to the smell of…baby. Not baby-yuck, or baby-puke or any of the other occupational explosions of tiny people. Just 'baby'. An absolutely tiny girl, that he could've fitted into both hands with bits of palm to spare, rested on the tented blanket between his legs, nested between his thighs. He would've been able to hold her, had his wrists not been cuffed to the side of the bed. A cold voice came across from the right. Yes of course, it was Annalise. He just wasn't expecting her to be holding a taser. This was new psychotic behaviour, even by her standards. Hank hadn't been expecting the taser either, clearly. He was face down on the floor, half-sticking out of the curtain. He let his breath out slowly and tried not to panic.

"Did you come up with a name?"

"Carianne," she said. "I thought it would work well in Holland. Or in the States. Wherever we ended up."

She was holding the taser close to his shoulder and his legs were still touching Carianne. He tried using his fingertips to bunch as much slack as possible into the blanket over his legs so that he could lower her onto the bed, away from him. If Annalise zapped him, she'd also kill her daughter, right now. He guessed that was… kind of the plan. _Stay conversational. _

"She's … very little."

"Five pounds. I was a little… stressed when she was born. Half your family disappearing at the important moment will do that to you."

_Don't get angry… shift away from baby…_ "Annalise, I've just had reconstructive surgery. I'm full of steel. I'm sweating. I'm more than a little conductive right now, so move that taser―"

"Where's Theo?" She gave him a twitchy smile and there was nothing left in the face that he married that he recognised. "Here's the thing, Jan. You've made it patently obvious that you'll sacrifice yourself not to give me Theo back, but would you sacrifice her? I don't think so."

"This kind of behaviour is _exactly_ why I'm not telling you."

She went shrill on him, which suited him fine – it was stirring Hank. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"You want a Lowen blood sample, Annalise? Fine – I'll post you one next time Theo has his vaccinations. Hell, have my blood! You don't seem to have a problem spilling it!"

"There's no Klaus in you, Jan, it won't work!"

"Neither will this insane Brinkerhoff 'cure' shit!" Hank stirring more… he raised his voice. "This is not about your genes, Annalise. It never was. You're not well and you need help."

"Oh, you want to help me now?" She laughed a little wildly, waving the taser at him, and he dumped a full load of blanket onto the bed between his legs, shifting his butt back as far as possible so he was no longer near baby. "You head to the other side of the fucking earth to get away from me and _now_ you say you want to help?"

"Actually, no. I don't want to help you – I want to tear you limb from limb, but you're still Theo's mother."

"That's all I ever was to you, wasn't it?"

He stared her down. "No. You were my wife, once, before you started becoming a danger to yourself and everyone around―"

"I never stood a chance! You were in love with someone else when I met you!"

"I told you about that from the beginning! I struggled for five months, got perspective, and that was it. And then we got married. Don't you _dare_ make this about my ex-p―"

She hit him with the taser.

. . . . .

A muffled below from further down the corridor had Nick up and out of his room, staggering slightly under the speed of flipping himself out of bed. He was barely at the door when Monroe bolted in, Theo in his arms, yelling 'UNCLES!'

Theo, crying, was bundled under the bed by Monroe, but it wasn't Monroe that stood to face 'uncles' – it was Alpha, and the roar he gave was sharp enough to startle the Klaustreich brothers back into Nick, almost dropping their guns (they'd learned). Perhaps it was the crying, but he was surprised that his first punch landed so hard, smacking one of them against the bedside TV. He took a hit to the gut from the other that pitched him over backwards, but – armed or not - two guys standing over you victoriously are vulnerable to having boots kicked between their legs: Nick took advantage of the posturing and thumped them with a quick flick upwards. They whined and buckled slightly, but were still armed. At least Nick's head and shoulders were still out in the corridor – he didn't even have to call for Denny. He came thundering down in a flash of blue shirt and took over with the Klaustreich while Nick pelted into Jan's room to deal with Annalise.

Jan had half-woged; his wrists were bloody but the cuffs had clearly been too small to contain him and he'd snapped through both chains – somehow. His eyes and teeth were still leonine but the rest of him very much human, standing as a determined but unsteady barrier between Annalise and Carianne. Nick crept in behind her, still feeling his Grimm trying to take charge, but Theo was at the window now, his mouth wide with crying, face red, reminding Nick that he was really – for all that brain – just a little boy, who didn't need to see him go GRIMM on his mother. Monroe was trying to lead him away, but he wouldn't leave.

Nick grabbed Hank's cuffs then leapt on Annalise from behind, pressing her hard against the floor but aiming for a half-way house in his approach. He wasn't on duty: he couldn't be a cop. He was still off-balance: he couldn't be a Grimm. He met Theo's eyes and kept his face and voice as level as possible. It worked – his Nick came back.

"I'm performing a citizen's arrest for common assault―"

"You can't do this!"

He packed her hands into the cuffs and slammed them shut. "When you are detained by an _attested_ officer, you will have the rights to remain silent. These rights will be repeated to you." Annalise struggled violently and he leant on her shoulders to keep her still. "Anything you do or say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before you speak to the police. If you are unable to afford an attorney, it is likely that one will be arranged for you. Do you understand?"

She shot a vicious glance backwards at him and he smiled down at her. "Believe me, this is the best way to go. _You don't want to deal with me as a Grimm."_

Annalise screamed her head off.

"_Did your brothers not warn you?"_ More screaming – lots to be guilty about, clearly. He pulled her to her feet. "_Very remiss of them."_

He led her down the corridor, out of Theo's way. Denny followed with the brothers – one under an arm, one over a shoulder, neither very lively. Hopefully there would be a squad car outside, but if not… well, the Hildegaards were finally out of the Vergeers' way, at least. Even slightly off-balance, it wasn't too much of a job getting the struggling woman out of the building and into the carpark. It was weird… he could do it all… eyes-voice-arms …when he needed to.

A couple of squad cars turned up – either Hank had come round upstairs, or someone had enough of the fourth floor drama and had called for help.

They handed the Hildegaards over and Nick looked back at the front door of the hospital to see Jan standing there, tot in one hand – literally, in one _hand_ – Theo clinging to his leg, and wondering what the hell they were doing outside instead of getting over PTSD as a family together in Jan's nice warm room. Monroe and Hank trailed them – Monroe holding Hank up, a little.

Then he saw Jan and Theo's faces and realised that they both needed to _see _it was over with their own eyes. He really couldn't blame them. The sound of a car door banging made Nick jump – it was weird having half his hearing. Something to be fixed – soon. Renard climbed out of the car, accompanied by a tallish, grey, solid man with a thick grey moustache. He waved at Theo, whose face brightened up immediately.

"Sean! Om Remus!"

Theo had shot past Nick and out into the road before he could put one foot in front of the other and the next few seconds played out in snapshots…

An SUV bearing down on Theo – Theo unaware…

Denny pelting out into the road and seizing Theo up onto his chest.. Denny and Theo travelling up over the SUV's bullbars, over the windscreen.. Over the roof… Denny's advance wince as he looked down and held Theo up into the sky at the same time – And then the thump as Denny hit the road behind the vehicle.

Nick was the first to scramble behind the car and saw Denny keeping his arms locked up, Theo bawling healthily for one more second, dangling in the air, before his arms folded and the little boy plopped down onto his chest.

**X x X**

On the one hand, Sean was a little relieved to see that there was enough little-boy about Theo to make him react to the shock of nearly being run over _as _a little boy… Theo buried his face in his Dad's chest and howled. Monroe had very kindly taken baby for a moment so that Jan could console properly. The driver had lunged out of the seat immediately and run over in a complete lather of apologetic panic, and Sean had to be impressed by the way that Nick calmly despatched the fool into the hospital building to bring some _medical_ help _out_. He was also keeping Miller's head still, sensibly.

The Siegbarste wasn't out for long. His recovery began in a series of uncertain flinches and muttering, and then the muttering built into an increasingly long stream of increasingly identifiable expletives. At 'shitty', Jan popped his hands over Theo's ears; Monroe his fingertips over Carianne's ears. Endearing, but pointless.

Theo dried up immediately. "He's waking up!"

Jan looked monumentally relieved. Monroe, dubious. "You know, I prefer Nick's style of revival, on balance. Weird, but clean."

"…surprisingly …cocking…_painful_!" Miller finished, and his eyes opened blearily. He was breathing very hard. "That was a really…solid car. You ok, kiddo?"

"What's cocking mean?"

"Later, Theo," Jan said mildly. "Let him draw breath…He's probably broken a couple of…"

"Nah, not likely," Miller muttered and tried to sit suddenly: he only managed a few inches before being suppressed by Nick but those few inches were enough to tell him that he couldn't have made it further if he'd tried. He yelled and flopped breathlessly back on Nick's lap. "That said, I think I might have bruised… umm…"

"Broken," Nick insisted, and helped the EMT guys get Miller onto the gurney that had arrived outside. "Sorry Denny, but it's X-ray time for you again."

"NO!"

"Yes."

"I'd rather get struck by ****** lightning up the arse!"

"I'll find some rubber shoes, then. C'mon. In we go…"

"No!" This one came out more muffled, clamped under a mask of gas-and-air. Renard smiled to himself: the Grimm leading the Champion away. It was a relief – he really had begun to worry that the Champion would be Nick: Remus had pointed him out as soon as he'd run into the car: the Champion always acts in the interests of the Patriarch – not necessarily in direct defence of the Patriarch. Dennis Miller was one to watch.

"_Denny, you're getting X-rayed and you're going to like it."_

Miller pulled the mask off his face and glared at Nick. "You really are like a bad cold. Persistent sod…"

**X x X**

Jan tapped Monroe lightly on the shoulder as the Alpha watched Denny get pushed away on the trolley. They'd join him, shortly, but there was something important they hadn't done. "Eddie… thanks for helping. Can I have my daughter back?"

"Oh! Yeah –sorry. Here… uh…. She's little! Are all babies this… little?"

"No, actually. She's particularly undersized. Annalise didn't really…"

"… look after herself?"

"Indeed. But we are where we are. Thanks very much."

Jan took Carianne back: she was well-wrapped but even as a bundle didn't take up much space on his arm. She kicked her way out of her blankie, revealing at last a mint-green babygro that was about an inch and a half too long on each leg. Black hair; hands doing what all newborns hands do – splaying palm-up in front of the face and then curling into balls, really slowly.

Jan felt his chest hitch as he hooked his right thumb and little finger under her armpits, resting her head and body in his palm, and letting her butt and legs dangle down his forearm. She stared at him through dark bottle-green eyes. "Hello baby girl."

Theo wrapped her over again, being impressively careful. Jan bent sideways slightly to kiss the top of his head.

"Theo, this is Carianne, your baby sister. Little lady – Theo. Big Brother. I'm…"

"Dad," Monroe volunteered for him, and moved away to let them get on with it.

"Yeah," Jan repeated, not quite believing he had his family together at last. That was going to take a while to sink in. "I'm dad."

"She's a girl," Theo observed.

Jan glanced at him sideways. "If you're not ok with that, you're going to have to learn to be. Babies don't come on order, you know." He stood slowly, pressed Carianne up against his chest, and took Theo's hand, leading them back into the building. "Is there something wrong with girls?"

"No," Theo considered. "Girls are ok. But I'm not braiding her hair before school!"

"Brushing is fine. Braiding is probably unnecessary."

"And I'm not buying her pink stuff. She can play with trucks… But not pink trucks…"

**Ok folks – one last part coming up – 'Boys' Grand Day Out' (the 'resettlement', if you like: the fluff after the drama!) One for the ipods.. Vangelis' Chariots of Fire... ;)**


	13. Boys' Grand Day Out (finale)

_**And here we go – the finale! Thanks so much all for following thus far! I'd be really grateful to know what you think. I've tried not to make it too… mushy- but these things can be hard to get right!**_

_**I really hope you enjoy. **_

**X x X**

"Dude, you can probably take your shades off. It's really not that sunny… yet."

"I'm in a Legoland queue with fifty-odd tiny wesen. I thought it might be wise."

"Nick – that's kind of my point. They're _tiny_ wesen, who neither understand the concept of Grimm yet, or who don't really care. Besides, all the adults have been briefed. You're one of Theo's coat-peg people. It's all cool."

Coat-what people? Nick frowned and rubbed his hands together in the frigid, late-autumn breeze. "Pardon?"

Monroe chuckled. "As a non-executive, stroke sleeping partner, stroke managerially-uninvolved part-owner of Beeber Babies, Jan had _one_ small suggestion imported from Dutch nurseries. Each kid usually gets their own coat peg with their own names above it, right?"

Nick shrugged. "Sounds usual."

"They also get a second little card above their pegs, giving all the names of people who are allowed to drop that kid off and pick them up, and their relationship to the kid. Saves a hell of a lot of embarrassment – you don't want to accidentally accuse some Geier lady of being a kid's grandma instead of their mom – dangerous territory, that – or accuse a mom of being a babysitter. Plus, it's good to actually know people's names. Kind of undignified to still be calling some poor lady 'William's mom' after six months of passing the time of day at drop-off. Theo's coat peg list is pretty long. The entire federation's on it."

Nick grinned. "Can't believe you and Rosalie will be getting a peg in your own right soon." Monroe gave a dopey kind of grin that made Nick punch him affectionately on the shoulder. "How you feeling about things, now? Because you were a little… freaked out. At times." Nick tacitly referred to the several dawn calls he'd received, in which Monroe frantically listed his two-hundred-and-twenty-three potential failings as a father after a couple of challenging nights looking after Theo.

"Better. Jan left his little people with Denny for a few hours and swung by for some tea. It really helped. Turns out that Jan has the odd freak-out moment himself, which was good to know." Monroe chuckled. "He seems to have it all completely together, but apparently he got into a total bad-dad panic because some pushy parent was going on about their two-year-old kid knowing all their letters already while Theo was still using his flashcards to make airport runways. He just took a deep breath and decided he'd start teaching him instead of worrying about what some competitive asshole was saying. I felt a lot calmer afterwards – both Rosie and I did. After the whole… Annalise nightmare, we were worried about the implications of raising, y'know, a gemischtwesen."

Hank clapped a hand on Monroe's shoulder. "Man, you'll be fine. From what I've seen of Jan and Theo, it's about setting a strong, calm example, and you have to be one of the most self-disciplined guys I know, so, um.."

Monroe grinned at him, thanking Hank silently and saving him the necessity of swimming into bromance. Nick felt proud of his partner: this was a big acceptance leap for him. And part of the point of bringing him out for the grand 'Beeber Babies' opening event. Ok, so the boys' grand night out didn't go smoothly: but attempt two, a day in the company of various wesen toddlers could not be _less_ intimidating as a new way of dragging his partner into his world. The queue going into Legoland was still static, but the excitement was building among the crew of knee-highs that he, Monroe and Hank had been stationed to 'watch' while they waited to get in. They were all in human form and shaped more like nappies with legs and arms than children.

Nick couldn't believe how much Jan had managed to get sorted out, and how quickly: even when still laid up with an IV, armed with no more than his cell phone, Jan had: arranged viewings to get Sally Moller's little church play group into permanent premises; arranged funds – largely his own, it appeared; had some quiet, meaningful words with the Hasslichen at the bank and building control office; talked a theme park manager into lending them the under-fives section of the park for the day, and pretty much created a waiting list and recruitment overload for the nursery through a couple of 'friendly chats' with the right people. Jesus. He'd always known Jan was smooth, but―

"Anyway," Hank said briskly, "Happy Birthday, Nick!" He produced a card that made Nick laugh with its shoved-in-the-coat crumpledness, and which made Monroe moan into his hands.

"Dude, you could've reminded me!"

"You've had a lot on your mind," Nick said mildly, and opened the envelope. The card was very homemade, an enormous 32 written on the front of a folded sheet of yellow legal paper and, inside, a short poem and a scrap of paper. The poem made him chortle:

_Roses are red, violets are blue_

_There are still __**some**__ singles older than you_

Hank had a way of making the harsh easier to swallow. He'd now been promoted to a calm, reassuring presence in the foreground of Juliette's life, but that was about as far as things had progressed. The scrap of paper was a 'voucher promise' for an all-beers-paid night out on the town, in the company of the whole UFRS, at anywhere but Tennant's Bar. Three times underlined.

"Thanks, Hank." Nick chuckled. "UFRS?"

"United Federation of Rare Species," Hank said. "It's all very official. Denny's even gotten us our own email domain name, now, not that he's going overboard in anyway."

"I can't _believe_ I forgot your birthday!"

"Monroe, forget it!" But one possibility occurred to Nick. "You can take my turn with Carianne's nappy. That'll make my day - the girl's like a living magma chamber. I didn't think babies _could _actually go 'bang', and I can even hear that post-op. Where _is_ Denny, by the way?" Then Nick smelt smoke and turned to see Denny approaching behind, holding Theo's hand.

"Sorry – just cramming one last in before we're funnelled into no-smoking land for the day. Being an 'inappropriate adult', as Mrs Greenaway would say."

"Who's Mrs Greenaway?"

"Inconvenient Hug Woman," Theo explained, darkly.

Nick bit back his smile. "Strikes at bad times, does she?"

"Does she ever! Flaming Nora…" Theo muttered, and dashed off to 'arrange' his friends in the queue. Nick noted a degree of hero worship going on between Theo and Bud's kid, Matty. Matty slavishly copied pretty much everything Theo did.

Denny stubbed out and fiddled with the corner of a nicotine patch. "Mrs Greenaway's the lovely child psychologist that social services packed off to the precinct to interrogate Renard about Jan's domestic circumstances. In other words, the damnfool woman that would've had Theo seeing his dad looking an utter… wreck if various interventions hadn't been staged." Denny rolled his eyes and slapped the patch on. "She means well, but she's hard to please. First she was 'a little concerned' that the Lieutenant of a Police Department would find it unmanageable being a single father of two, and pretty much followed him everywhere to see how he was coping."

Nick winced. That must have pushed Jan quite close to the edge of his temper. "And now…?"

"Well now I've moved in for a bit, she's 'slightly concerned' about our unconventional domestic arrangement. There's no pleasing some people."

Hank gave Denny a knowing look. "You've moved into Jan's place?"

"I'm _lodging_, I'll have you know – earning my way in childcare while I get a new job so that Jan can get a bit of kip from time to time. After getting quite manifestly fired, I couldn't keep my flat. No place of residence means no right to remain, which means going back to blighty. No thanks." Denny such a heartfelt shudder that Nick wondered what was so bad back in England that made a personal-space-freak happier to share a house with two tiny children than return 'home'. "Still, it's meant that I've been asked to 'adjust the rougher edges of my behaviour', particularly as Theo seems particularly impressionable. Bloody woman. Theo's smart enough to know what _not_ to say in polite company and frankly, I've never advertised myself as polite company."

Nick grinned. Honest, brave, patient, kind company, yes: polite? Stretching it a bit. Mrs Greenaway had a point about one thing, though: if Matty were hero-worshipping Theo, Theo was doing the same of Denny, moving the littler, more shambolic tots forward in the queue with a firm clap and: "come on, smalls! A bit of focus, please!" He couldn't help feeling that there were many worse people that Theo could imitate.

"…Nick?"

"Sorry?"

"Nothing critical, I was just asking how you've been. Hearing still a bit crap in that ear?"

"Yeah – not quite there, yet. I've been well looked after, though." Mercifully, he could remember very little of what they had all come to refer to as 'Siege Night': at least, very little after the point he'd apparently passed out all over Denny at the club doors while they were fighting their way out. No one felt the need to fill in his blanks, and he was happy not to pursue the missing memories. He still had recurring headaches and, for a couple of weeks, godawful nightmares about getting shot, but those were going. And, while his strength had yet to return, at least he'd regained full control over his voice again. He could still thunder quietly if he really, really needed to, but he seemed to be the boss of the Grimm – for now.

The hearing bugged him. The surgery to fix his right tympanic membrane had been a success on paper, but the return of his hearing in his right ear was slower than promised and his balance remained appalling, making him feel nauseous and fragile most of the time. For the time being, at least, he remained dependent on his anti-vertigo pills, and had had to double up on his anti-pheromones. People appeared awfully keen to grab him when he went off balance and there was usually an unnecessary amount of bodily grappling involved before he found his feet again.

But he had, as said, been really well looked after.

For the first few days after being released from hospital, he'd ended up staying with Bud, Janie and Matty, who were… attentive, to say the least. Being eased up to bed and allowed to sleep for 36 hours straight in a comfy bed was … divine. Having his favourite dinners made was nice. Having breakfast brought in bed was nice. Having an extra towel and cup of tea parked _inside_ the bathroom door while he was showering was downright alarming. Thank God for his tendency for boiling showers – a degree of steam preserved his modesty. He'd moved back home after a few days of having his bed beautifully made while he was still in it, then Hank temporarily moved in.

Nick caught the end of Hank catching Denny up on his '_actual_ recovery', since he'd been so concise. "…Eating better. Watching TV without the sound on nuclear, now. The night terrors weren't much fun, but now he's sleeping like a baby."

"Really?" Denny sounded disapproving and gave Nick a mock-glare. "Sleeping like a baby, eh? So Nick's been waking you every other hour and demanding milk?"

Nick gaped. "I have _not_!"

"Didn't think so," Denny chuckled. "Hank – have littl'un for a night, please? It might revise your definition of 'sleeping like a baby'. Oh – speak of the devil…"

The queue started moving through the gates of the park at last, coat-peg people taking the hands of little ones up and down the line to keep them in control, and Jan weaved his way towards them in the opposite direction, coming from the gate, carrying 'littl'un' in a pouch on his front. The pouch was far, far too big for its occupant and all Nick could see of Carianne was two little white arms and legs with a duckling pattern hanging out of a dark-blue strap-on carrier, and down Jan's front. He beamed at them as he approached, having stopped to give friendly instructions to a few batches of nursery workers and coat-peg people along the way.

"Gents, sorry about the wait – administrative problems. We're good to go, now. Ok guys, the plan is to supervise the kids on the rides in the morning, then have the food-flung chaos known as 'lunch', then team sports this afternoon. So if you could take them in your batches to the tented area over to the left…"

Nick bent to take the hands of the two teeny Maushertzen either side of him when a light nudge just behind his knees made him pitch forward abruptly. Jan broke his fall before he ate asphalt and pulled him up in as dignified a fashion as possible. Nick turned giddily to see that the culprit – tiny traitor – was Matty: two-foot-six of unrepentant giggles. Bud and Janie dashed over, mortified.

Denny raised Matty up to eye level and said evenly, "Here's a new school rule – we do _not _tip the Grimm."

Matty's giggles stopped promptly. "Sowwy."

"_Why_ do we not tip the Grimm?"

"Is mean."

"It _is _mean," Jan confirmed, and looked down at his son, who had a ludicrously criminal expression on his face while trying to look as innocent as the day was long. "No ice cream," he said simply, making Theo gasp at the injustice. He didn't argue though, Nick noted. Not that Theo had the chance – he and Jan had been thoroughly collared by Bud and Janie, who had taken Matty back from Denny and were in paragraph two of a flurry of apologies about 'disgraceful behaviour'. Jan helped Nick to stem the flood by suggesting that Matty redeemed himself by setting up the events table inside the gates. They moved on, eventually.

Jan frowned over Monroe's shoulder as he made a quick update of Grimm rules in his tiny book and blinked disbelievingly. "Does that _really_ say 'Never lick a Grimm?' What fool would try that? Jesus, poor Nick…"

Nick and co kept their mouths firmly shut. Some incidents, painfully memorable, did not warrant revisiting.

He watched gleefully as Hank and Monroe had their hands confiscated by small, expectant people and were hauled through the theme park gates towards the rides. Jan held him back for just one moment, wanting a quiet word. Theo, keen to re-earn his ice-cream, led off the tiny Maushertzen that Nick was supposed to take in, trying to herd them in vaguely the right direction with a mild plea for them to 'get themselves organised'.

Denny hung back briefly to take Carianne from the carry-pouch for her change. "Hang on –I want to do the drop test." Denny popped a fingertip into Carianne's left hand, raised the whole tiny arm a few inches, moved his finger, and watched it drop-flop back down. "Hmmmm. She looks unconscious, but I'm not convinced."

"This is as asleep as she's going to get."

"Alright, hand us CarAlarm, then."

"Denny, _please_ don't call her that."

Nick snickered into his knuckles as the long-suffering Denny scooped Carianne out of her pouch and into the crook of his arm.

"Well it's not _you_ she goes off at, is it? With Daddy it's all cuddles, hearts, roses and Nick-like naps, but God forbid she gets separated from you for two minutes. It's me that gets the ear-damning ― Oh Lord, here we go… Jan – is our kit out, yet?"

Jan nodded. "On the events table."

"Fine – I'll get mine on after I've done her. C'mon, little bellower…." Denny stomped off arthritically to find a restroom, holding 'CarAlarm' at arm's length. Nick couldn't really blame him.

Jan gave him a tired smile. "I think the sleep deprivation is getting to him a little. The bruised ribs aren't helping."

"I think he'd refuse to help if he really didn't want to. It looks to me like the Schlaubaaste doth protest too much." Nick indicated the amazing banners, tent, picnic area and events table that had been set up for the day. "This is incredible. How did you get all this done?"

Jan shrugged. "I didn't. I had a chat with Sally – the co-owner - suggested some fun things to do and said I'd take care of the park. The rest of it is all down to her and her nursery ladies."

"I'm not just talking about today. I mean helping them get the nursery set up in the first place, emptying your wallet…"

"Opening, Nick, not emptying." Jan stuck his hands in his pockets as they strolled over to the teeny-people rides. "My father's been in touch. Apparently, he feels a little bad about abandoning me to get 'semi-murdered by the inlaws', to paraphrase Denny. Hence my bank account is suddenly even healthier than it was. This seemed as good an investment as any, and it's not as if I'm getting nothing out of it. But actually – there was something else I wanted to ask you about. Advice on a… question of tact."

Jan asking _him_ for tact advice? "Um… yeah?"

"Um… it's about Sally, Bud and Janie. And the lodge in general, actually. They're a wonderful people. Very pleasant, very grateful for any help you put their way – and they've been _really _grateful for the help setting up Sally's business, but they're a little … ardent."

Nick found himself grinning hugely. "How ardent have they been?"

"Well, we're trying to move from Stef's flat to the house. And every time I think I've made some headway with clearing out box space, all that nice empty floor gets covered in gift baskets. It's very kind of them. Just not particularly…"

"Helpful?" Nick finished for him. "Look, I find, with the lodge, that you just need to focus their notions of what _is_ helpful. Tell them when you're moving in, and you'll have all your stuff moved for you in five minutes flat. Probably unpacked, too. With flowers on the table."

Jan shuddered. "God forbid. Well. It's better than baskets, I suppose. Thanks for the tip. I'll just go check the team kits – make sure they've all arrived."

Nick pulled a face. "Look - I hate to be a wet blanket and I'm happy to help with the rides and lunch, but seriously, I don't think my balance is up to an afternoon of athletics."

Jan chuckled. "And if they were normal athletics, I'd get a pass too – as would Denny. But I'm afraid there's no escape, Nick. It's all about equal opportunities at Beebers. Theo and the organising committee came up with events that everyone can take part in – even we battered three. Don't forget we only had the Paralympics a while ago – the older kids are still very enthused about the whole thing. They're more interested in what we can do than what we can't."

**X x X**

Recalling his birthday debt to Nick, and seeing Bud incoming with Matty, Monroe almost raced after Denny to help him with Carianne's nappy change. The Biber caught up with him nonetheless and practically stalked him into the restroom to confide in him.

"Um…. Yeah?"

"Um… do you think Jan knows how grateful we are for what he's done for Sally? She was on the verge of a nervous breakdown before he waded in there, but he's so hard to pin down to thank! We've only left one load of baskets and have no idea where to deliver the next to, so-"

"I'd aim small, Bud," Monroe advised sagely. "Little things, now and again, really publicly."

Bud's face brightened. "Really? Like what?"

"Well, take today. Jan's a massively athletic guy. He's bound to win at least six things. Just smuggle some jam onto his winner's podium, or something."

"Wow – thanks!" Bud shuffled off and Monroe slammed the restroom door after him in desperation, only to find Denny crying with silent laughter as he bent over the tiny girl on the changing mat. Theo was next to him, overseeing things.

"Monroe, I'm actually proud of you! That was _slightly_ evil. You know he's actually going to do that, don't you?"

"I don't _care_! He's so annoying. Man!" Monroe joined Denny at the mat and looked down as Denny fumbled with the baby-gro buttons on the inner legs while Carianne flung her legs about like pistons.

"Buttons are utter purgatory," Denny muttered. "When people start asking what they can get for baby, tell them 'velcro or popper clothes _only_'. If they give you anything with buttons on the back, go alpha on them. No, _don't_ do that, darling! Not constructive!"

Monroe nodded sagely and added this to the back page of his note book. It was pencil – he'd add it to his parenthood tip book later. "Um, need help?"

Denny backed off like a happy man. "Absolutely be my guest. Is this practice, or penance for something?"

"Both. I forgot Nick's birthday. Self-imposed penance, though. He didn't seem to care too much." Monroe managed to get Carianne's clothes off and out of harm's way, then unwrapped the nappy, which of course was chock-full of penance, which she added to by pinging her legs up like a tiny Buddha, adding her feet to the body surface areas that urgently needed a clean. He reached for a wipe, did well, another wipe – good progress – then found the bin was on the other side of the room. What kind of chance did that give him? Theo was sitting next to a roll of nappy bags, his arms folded. Monroe tried an encouraging smile.

"Hey little man, fancy giving me a hand?"

"You're doing really, _really_ well," Theo assured, not budging an inch.

Monroe wasn't after flattery, specifically. He was more hoping for Theo opening a nappy bag for him. But hey – he'd be a poor dad if he expected a 3-year-old to do the work for him. He let go of Carianne's legs to open a nappy bag and her feet pinged back up to the remaining muck around her backside. He felt that this was a slightly circular procedure with no visible happy ending.

Denny clapped him cheerfully on the shoulder and disappeared into one of the cubicles with his team kit. "Back in a tick. Flaming toilet doors… these things don't lock!"

Monroe smirked at the sound of interior struggling and muttering as he finally got Carianne cleaned up and re-suited, then packed the bag away. He gave her tum a friendly tickle, but she stared blankly back at him. He turned to ask Denny when babies started smiling voluntarily when he saw his friend struggling to get the top over his head and chest, revealing white slash marks over the tan across most of his back – except for a small area 'graced' by the razored sign of a reaper carved into the lower left quarter. His blood ran cold in his veins and he suddenly had a thump of understanding about the bond Denny had formed with Jan – it wasn't so much sympathy he had for the guy, but empathy, at going through something that he'd never be able to share with anyone until the problem was out in the open. Little wonder he'd shown so much understanding at Jan wanting to keep his injuries to himself.

Denny tugged the top all the way down and stomped out of the cubicle, looking bemused. Bemused, but very cool in black tracksuit bottoms with silver stripes down the sides, and a black thermal top with silver contrast lettering reading 'HUGE DUDE' across the front of it, which looked to Monroe like something of an understatement. The thermal material clung and made him look, frankly, Jan-sized.

"Theo, didn't we say XXL for me?"

Theo shrugged. "You wrote down the order, not me. I can't write, you know."

"True. It's just not very forgiving material. Thank god my appetite's been off lately, that's all I can say." Denny re-joined him at the baby table and looked down at Carianne, who looked as if she might start dozing off again. And then she smiled, wide, deliberate and gummy. Monroe looked between Carianne and Denny and saw the huge grin splitting the Schlaubaaste's face. "Was that grin for me?"

"It was," Monroe confirmed. "I did all the work, then beamed and tummy-tickled and she looked at me like I'd broken wind. She was definitely looking at you."

"Hey, I got a smile!" Denny scooped Carianne up and bounced her out of the room, quite happily. Monroe helped Theo down from the edge of the changing table and followed, feeling reassured and cheered. It seemed that for every two hundred smelly moments as a parent or proxy-parent, you got a nugget of gold, but he could see how precious that nugget was, making all the grim things in life suddenly unimportant in comparison. He grinned as he joined Denny and the others at the rides out at the park as Denny handed Carianne back to Jan.

He couldn't wait for New Year's Eve.

**X x X**

Denny barely had the chance to hand Carianne back to Jan before Theo and Matty hauled him forcibly in the general direction of the pirate falls log ride. He dutifully joined them all the way up to the front of the queue, nattering with Jan about the joys of … not really having to queue very much… and found himself being ushered into the boat by the two ladies in charge of the ride.

"Oh, no, I'm too big. I'll unbalance the boat. NICK!"

"You're fine, Sir, you were able to pass under the shelter beam, so you're not too big for the ride." The girl looked regretfully at Jan. "I'm so sorry, you're too tall for the security bar. It won't fit. You'll have to stay…"

"Oh _no_," Jan said mournfully and stepped back, waving cheerfully at him as he was pretty much pressed into the goddamn boat – _small people! Small spaces! _and it set off with him crammed, steaming with irritation, behind the cackling pair of tiny people in front of him. Jan leant against one of the queue-shelter columns with a huge coffee in his hand and had the infernal cheek to salute him with it as the ride travelled up a long, watery slope, which could only result in a short, wet ending.

He stepped off a few minutes later, soaked, irritated, and refusing to get back on again. He squelched his way over to Jan, who was still laughing, looking a little pained at the effort and therefore supporting himself against the side of the photography hut, waving an incriminating photo of his face at the point of entering the downwards log-ride deluge.

Denny inspected the photo stonily and handed it back. "Ok. So that was cruel and unusual punishment for… what, exactly?"

"That," Jan said mildly, recovering himself a little, "was for 'Gay Lion King'."

"WHAT? Fuck's sake man, that was weeks ago! I thought Siegbarstes were bad for harbouring grudges – you bloody nurse yours! You probably tuck them into bed with hot milk!"

"Nick was _in the room_!" Jan hissed. "That could've led to all sorts of awkward discussions I'd never want to have in about two hundred years. Thank god we were interrupted – I've never been so grateful to have people baying for my blood on the other side of a door! Besides, as I've told my unlovely decree-nisi-ex, quite truthfully, I got Nick into perspective quite some time ago."

Denny shrugged. "Ok, it was an unwise observation. But you need to remember, I was a bit new to civilised conversation at that point. And anyway, it doesn't matter anymore does it? He doesn't remember what that bonkers woman told him, and you interrupted her with a gunshot before she had a chance to go any further. Besides – I think you're forgetting the one element of Nick which makes him our favourite pet Grimm."

Jan relaxed, somewhat. "And what's that?"

"A very healthy supply of humility, combined with a very unhealthy supply of monogamy, given the Juliette situation. He doesn't notice other people finding him attractive. He wouldn't notice someone's present or former crush on him if it were seven feet tall and lying on top of him."

Jan shrugged. "True." Then stared at him in bewilderment. "Curious analogy, though."

Denny watched Jan walk off to the lunch mess and smirked. He was lucky to get away with that one. He really, _really_ needed to learn to shut his gob.

**X x X**

Lunch was the slightly insane food-flinging mania that Jan had predicted, and then the federation convened around the events noticeboard. Jan had gone to get the team kit, leaving Hank, Nick and Monroe to observe the afternoon's insanity as set out in a series of neat tables on a whiteboard in the drinks gazebo. Hank had been stunned by the degree of organisation going into the day when he'd arrived in the morning, and having survived several tea-cup rides and half an hour in the aquarium submarine in the company of miniature blutbad, he felt tired but pretty much ready for anything. Even the concept of 'team kit'. If Denny's stylish silver-on-black clingy effort was anything to go by, it was do-able without any serious loss of dignity. The events on the board, however…

He had to grin at the sheer inventiveness of it all. He'd gotten to know Theo just a little over the last few weeks, and his hand was definitely in this set-up in quite a few visible places. The board tables were broken down into events for individual coat-peg teams, and events for members of all teams to join in. After a few minutes of spotting his name coming up at least seven times in the mixed events, he stopped grinning. He'd be shattered by the time he got home.

Nick peered past him and chuckled. "Looks like you've been signed up for the 100 metre mosey."

"I'll walk it," Hank quipped, making Nick laugh.

"Don't get too cocky. You're up against the Arizona aces – they're the wild western unruhigbisonen…that's buffalo, to you – if anyone can mosey, it's them."

"Oh man, unfair!"

"What's our coat-peg sport event?" Nick reached past him to trail his fingertip down the neatly-printed table, squinted at the explanatory text and groaned. "Oh God, we're going to look so _silly!_"

Hank couldn't see, because of the despairing finger-tip. "What?"

"We're doing the 'Chariots of Fire Sprint'."

"Uh… slow-mo running?"

"Yeah. And actually running _to_ the tune of 'Chariots of Fire'." Nick stepped up to see what else he'd been signed up for and Hank followed his gaze, snickering at Nick's predicted appearance at the bean-bag fling and extreme ironing events. And the Jelly slide.

Chuckling, Hank considered that this was definitely his idea of a grand day out. Even the sun had come out, bathing everyone in a warm glow that cut through the lessening wind. Jan was changing over by the events table, having passed Carianne over to one of the teenaged nursery staff who was doing her flushed, unsuccessful best not to boggle while he calmly slipped his shirt and jeans off, still chatting convially, slipped on the team top and tracksuit bottoms over his boxers. Jan clearly still couldn't lift his left arm past his shoulder so had some way to go in terms of physical recovery, but the complete rib mess that had half of his old Narc colleagues betting on what had happened to him had now gone. From the back, at least.

Hank liked 'the kit'. Between Jan's shoulder blades read UFRS, italicised, and in the middle, in big glittery block letters, 'Jan'. Jan stooped to reclaim Carianne, scooped up the kit and made his way over to the gazebo to hand it out. It was clearly the first time that Jan had seen it – he looked as impressed as Hank felt.

"Looks like we have nicknames too, Gentlemen. Theo – You're 'cool dude', I presume."

"Yeah! Denny did yours, but I did _all_ the others."

"Ok Eddie, you're Alpha Dude."

"Wahay!" Monroe almost ripped his plaid off in his hurry to change.

"Hank – 'Big Dude'."

Hank draped his stuff over the chair and pulled off shirt and jeans. "Happy with that."

"Bad-ass Dude'… hang on…" Jan flipped the top over. "Stefan." He cleared his throat and gave his son a mildly disapproving look. "Bad-ass. Did they not query this at the printers?"

"Not very much."

"Ok… Well, he's not coming anyway. On duty. So… Nick's…" Jan blinked. "Um…Right. here you go."

Hank tried to keep a straight face as Nick took the garment cautiously and turned it over to the front, where it read: 'Dude's bigger than he looks'.

"Could be worse," Hank comforted. "It could be 'Medium Dude'. Or 'Gorgeous Grimm'.

Nick just gave him _that_ look.

" 'Evasive Dude'?" Jan frowned and turned it over. "Who's Sean, Theo?"

Theo rolled his eyes magnificently. "_Captain _Sean, Daddy!"

Jan made a slightly strangled noise that nearly made Hank laugh out loud. "You asked Captain Renard, _my boss_, to come along to a baby-wesen sports day?"

"Yeah, but he was so busy!" Theo's eyes were wide with wonder. "It's amazing how much stuff he had to do today!"

Jan looked sternly at Denny. "Did you let him press the point?"

"Mate, he did you proud! There was nothing I could tell him off for. He was completely polite, and came up with simple, practical solutions to every obstacle in 'poor Sean's' way."

Talking over his groaning, muttering father, Theo said cheerfully, "But he offered to pay for the kit to be made, at least. Curses of Portland peedee, or something. I told Sean I'd give him his later this week."

Nick bent down and helped Theo into his garment, voicing Hank's exact thoughts for him. "Could you tell us when you're going to do that?"

Theo concentrated. "Denny's bringing me to the peedee from nursery on… Tuesday."

Hank furtively entered this into his palm pilot, observed by Nick.

"Send that to me as a meeting invite," Nick muttered, stripping his long-sleeved tee off and replacing it with the thermal. "I'm not missing that."

"It's done." Hank lent Nick a hand on the elbow to help him get the tracksuit bottoms on without tilting over sideways, and then it was off into the games. Hank looked around, feeling contented –for now. Ok, there was a lot of wesen shit going on with a lot of shitty people involved on the surface of those wesen. But then, there was just as much human rubbish, and a lot of wesen sense. Today made a lot of sense. Hopefully tomorrow would, too.

**X x X **

Sean tried. He tried really hard. But all the urgent emails he needed to send and calls that he needed to make – he hadn't been kidding Theo about being busy – all sent him in the wrong direction, and he still had Remus' infuriating but probably-profound advice in the back of his mind. Plus, on the professional side of things, he really, really couldn't abandon Burkhardt to the mercies of the merciless Oregon Police HR central department: if they had their way, Nick would be thigh-deep in occupational health referrals and other unpleasant paperwork in five minutes flat, but it was Sean who'd insisted that he not return to work until he was 'more himself'. Or, at the very least, sounding more like himself. He exerted his Captaincy privileges again: Nick's head injury and very public airlift to hospital after the 'Southlands II' should hopefully make it easier to explain his decision to waive the trigger-point for injury-related absence from duty. If not, he planned to tell the Commissioner to blow it out of his ass. The Grimm was his to protect – complicated red-head issues notwithstanding.

He abandoned his half-hearted missive to Eric about the need to rethink the Royal Game Plan, shut up his laptop, drawer and office, and checked out the address of the park that a smirking Denny Miller had left with him after guiding the improbably beguiling toddler away to fetch his dad. He needed to find Adalind, to deal with the mental plague that had blurred his public and private life so messily. He needed to be away to do that. To be away, he needed a reliable deputy. At least Wilson had already agreed to Vergeer's transfer under a fresh start scheme to Portland, rather than continue at Gresham. In two short weeks back at work, Vergeer had shown himself very, very capable. He just hoped that the guy wouldn't turn the world around irreversibly in the next two weeks that he needed to be off. From what he'd seen of the Dutchman's influential power, he wouldn't put it past the guy to simply walk out into Portland and politely request 'right, no more crime, please', and have that happen. That would just put him out of a job.

. . . . .

While, Theo may be highly impressionable, he never forgot a lesson, and this time, when Sean's car pulled into the private carpark at the back of Legoland, he ran to the gate enthusiastically but not across any roads. Jan caught up with him and let the boy and the captain reunite for a moment, Renard unexpectedly carrying Theo back to the tented and gated area on his hip, chatting mildly about following his advice to get some of that 'horrid work' out of the way.

Jan let Theo stick close as Sean observed his kit.

"Evasive dude?"

"Well, you were! But you're here now, so you can have bad-ass dude if you prefer. Unless you're upset about being called 'Stefan'."

Renard sighed. "No, evasive dude is about right. You go play – I'll change in a moment."

Jan followed his wintry look across the events table to the comical line of heads, from Nick up to Denny, peering round the side of the gazebo curtain to see his reaction to his kit. They were like a totem pole of guilty grins which dispersed the moment the Captain clapped eyes on them.

Renard peeled off his shirt and put the thermal on for the time being, speaking quietly. "I need to be out of Oregon for a couple of weeks. Personal stuff – but making my professional life difficult."

Jan nodded. "I know all about that."

"I thought you would. So, you need to be acting Captain for a couple of weeks. You going to be ok with that?"

Jan caught his breath. "What?"

"You were Captain – it shouldn't come too much as a shock to your system."

"Well, no, but I wasn't expecting the title back so quickly – even if it is on temporary cover."

"Get used to it quickly, please. A lot of people would like to take advantage of my absence. And don't let Burkhardt go back to work until he's ready. How is he, by the way? Is he…. Sounding more himself?"

Jan chuckled: admittedly it had been a few weeks since he'd had to use the cotton wool balls. "He's definitely on the mend. Just not up to chasing perps through a car-park yet."

"Good. I'll go finish changing." He peered at his shirt. "UFRS?"

"United Federation of Rare Species?"

The Captain laughed mirthlessly. "Police Captain banjaxed by a toddler. I think I might belong."

Jan watched the Captain retreat to a rest-room to change into the bottom half of the team kit – not something that the rest of the federation had bothered doing. The guy still seemed creepy, secretive, unkeen on eye-contact. But it was a big show of trust. He was keen not to throw that back in the guy's face. Back in charge, but with his kids safe – it felt like life was returning to normal. Only, a better version of normal. He smiled and headed for the starting race line where the other guys were gathering. It wouldn't take long for Renard to change – in the meantime, the others were already hunkering down. Carianne was once again unconscious in the holder against his chest. Theo had probably counted on that. He'd signed him up for about thirteen events.

**X x X**

The strength returned to Nick at an odd moment: he got smirked at by a buffalo. A very smug buffalo, who thought that 'dude's bigger than he looks' was the height of amusing, for all the wrong reasons. So when this hairy dicktuft scored 45 feet on the bean-bag fling, Nick smiled graciously at the 'clear winner', his Grimm side-stepped into the moment of irritation, and he flung his own bag 52 feet. Hah. The Buffalo roamed off to his family looking as if he'd been slaughtered by a waif and Nick felt about twenty feet higher. Dizzy, yes, but tall and dizzy, which was all that really mattered, because he was getting his life under control at last. Well – in most ways, anyway.

The Federation were lined up at the start line of the Chariots of Fire Sprint in height order, leaving him at the far left. He peered over at the far right and noted with a degree of amusement that for a moment, Jan had chosen to leave Carianne with Theo, having done every other event with her strapped to him. She was settled into a baby-bouncer at Theo's feet, who was 200 metres away with the starter gun (heavily supervised by Sally), ready to blast off the race. Their instructions were to start running at the beginning of the piano interlude, but that they would be given 'help' by the starting gun if they didn't know an interlude if it slapped them in the face (Denny's words, recited back).

The drum beats started, followed by the Chariots' clarion call, and then the infamous piano, indicating that they were to lope off into the distance. Nick hadn't had so much fun in years, silliness aside. The drama of the slow-motion Olympic race got to Hank and Denny, who got competitive and sprinted off, instantly getting disqualified by Theo. Nick tripped up. It didn't matter – he was laughing too hard to concentrate, anyway. It came down to Renard, Jan and Monroe – but even with all concertedly obeying the slo-mo instructions, leg-length carried the day and Jan made it first over the line at about half a mile an hour.

It was the post-ceremony moments that made the whole thing worthwhile. The kids were being locked into cars and taken home by moms – the guys were cracking open beers in the evening tent and getting to know each other. Theo wasn't ready to go to bed yet, and for this one evening, he was allowed to stay up and see his dad be normal on this grand day out. For one night, the little boy was allowed to hang out with the adult members of his pride. Everyone else had changed back into their casuals but Jan, having had the chance to do so. Jan was still de-organising everything.

Nick watched Jan help Theo back into his own clothes and fold up his kit, putting it into their bag.

"What's on your shirt, Daddy? Denny didn't explain that one."

"Oh – it just means 'biggest daddy'. Do you recognise the letters? Can you do them now?"

Theo used his pointy-finger to work across Jan's top, not spelling out, but just saying what he saw in letter batches of three: "Pee Ay Tee, Arr Eye Ay, Arr Cee Aitch."

"That spells Patriarch," Jan said for him. But clearly he wasn't paying any attention to the word itself, just revelling in the pride and excitement in Theo's face that he got all the letters right already, so soon, with so little effort.

Nick bit his lip, swallowed hard and pulled away to leave them to it, willingly following Denny's gentle arm-tug in the general direction of the bar.

There were some forms of pride that were best left to enjoy in private.

**The end!**

_**I'd just like to thank all guest reviewers as well (particularly the ever-encouraging Mandy!) for reviewing throughout this story at various intervals. Thanks so much – I just can't PM guests to say so in person but I do appreciate it.**_

_**I've got a couple of silly shorts coming up soon that don't necessarily fit directly into the 'story arc' I'm developing in this little universe, but I will be bringing back the federation (and earlier OCs) in later stories. Thanks so much, all, for your encouragement on these characters.**_


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